


Il y a longtemps que je t'aime

by impossibletruths



Series: Children's Songs [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Character Death, Children, Gratuitous French, Homophobia, I mean it is Les Mis, Kid Fic, Lawyers, Multi, also other jobs, but mostly lawyers, single parent Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-19 23:11:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2406377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossibletruths/pseuds/impossibletruths
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre doesn’t push, which Enjolras thanks him for, which Enjolras will always thank him for. Instead he guides Enjolras with a gentle arm and far too much caution. Enjolras resents that. He is not some delicate thing that will shatter. He is strong as iron, and does not break.</p><p>In his arms little Geneviève sleeps soundly. He doesn’t know what to do with her. He doesn't know how to be a father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know little about early childhood development. Or French law. My philosophy’s kind of rusty too. The internet was really useful, okay.
> 
> tw homophobia, character death, children

His sister is beautiful when she laughs. Her head tilts back and her mouth opens and her eyes practically dance, and her joy always makes him happy.

That does not mean he wants to hold the squirming infant she’s holding out to him.

“Come on,” Cosette cajoles, laughing at the way he frowns at the child. “She’s just a baby, Enjolras.”

“That’s my point,” he frowns, but then his eyes soften and that ruins it. Cosette shifts the birthday girl in her arms a little and stares him down, height difference be damned. The birthday cake with a single candle sputtering sits menacingly on his counter, a birthday party for his niece that inexplicably ended up at the flat he shares with Combeferre instead of his sister’s house. But then, Cosette does what Cosette wants, and nothing Enjolras ever says changes her mind. (Their father always told him they inherited their pigheaded stubbornness from their mother.)

He supposes he’s lucky that his roommate isn’t here to laugh at him as well, but Combeferre has a date this afternoon and therefore is not home.

“Just hold your niece, you antisocial, overworked stick in the mud. Little Geneviève wants her uncle, _n’est pas, petite_?”

Little Geneviève, who is not quite old enough to form words, babbles and waves her hands at him, a signal that means ‘pick me up right now or so help me.’ Enjolras extends his arms with a sigh and Cosette dumps her daughter on him. Behind her Marius looks smug, and Enjolras can see him going for his phone, bound and determined to snap a photo of this. He scowls at his brother-in-law. The shutter clicks and Marius’ grin widens.

“If you send that to anyone I will find you in the dead of night,” Enjolras promises, and feels pleased when Marius blanches a little. Cosette ruins the moment by hitting him in the arm.

“And sing the Marseillaise over our bed maybe. Honestly Marius, I’m not going to let my brother murder you.”

“That’s what you think,” Enjolras mumbles, trying to get Geneviève’s hands to stop fisting in his hair. “Ouch, no, Ginette. That hurts.”

Ginette babbles and continues pulling on the curly blond strands. Marius takes another photo. Enjolras scowls at the birthday cake, as if the homemade sugary confection has personally wronged him, and his sister and her husband look on, beaming like mooncalves. So he ignores them and disentangles his niece’s fingers instead, pretending he doesn’t feel warmth wash through him when they wrap around his thumb instead.

She’s a beautiful child. She has Cosette’s bright blue eyes and small nose and Marius’ dark, wavy hair. She has dimples too, inherited from somewhere up the family tree (most likely Grandmother Pontmercy, Enjolras thinks, who he has never met but seen many pictures of) which appear when she smiles a wide infant grin up at him, a handful of teeth poking out of pink gums. He smiles back, helpless to refuse such enthusiasm and happiness.

“Aw, you’re adorable,” Cosette coos, and another camera click goes off. “I’m definitely putting that on our Christmas cards this year.”

“I hate you,” Enjolras tells her with a straight face. “Maman should have given you to an innkeeper like she threatened. You’re a terrible sister.”

“You’re just jealous because you don’t have an adorable kid of your own.”

“I have absolutely no wish to change diapers,” he counters. “Or stop working.” Anyways, he already has a baby: his law firm, a tiny struggling thing he created with a handful of friends from college. Cosette likes to tell him he pays more attention to it than he does to his family.

(Which may be true, but Enjolras tries his best not to. The firm does good for anyone who needs it. If he needs to put in extra work to make that happen then he will, happily.)

Cosette pulls a face. “Ah, yes, always the job. You don’t know what you’re missing, brother dear.”

“I’ve got the best of both worlds, little sister.”

She smirks. “So you admit this isn’t that bad after all.”

He sighs at her twist of logic, but there’s no reason to refute it. Especially when he knows Cosette will actually beat him up (probably) if he denies it. “Well,” he says, a little patronizing like any good older brother, “I suppose it’s okay.”

“Good,” she says. “Then you can come over next week too.”

The moment of happiness –– he gets no time to see his sister these days, and Ginette has grown so large since he last saw her almost two months ago –– flickers away when he remembers his schedule for the next week. “I can’t, I’ve got to work. My client––” Cosette sighs, and Enjolras touches her shoulder with his free hand, a silent apology. “We’ve been on this case for months––”

“I understand,” she says, and he knows she does. “I was just hoping we could make something of this. I know you’re married to your job but we never see you but the new house is finally all put together––”

“I know,” he echoes. Kicked out by his incredibly conservative grandfather when he went to law school, Marius spent four years living with his friend (and fellow lawyer) Courfeyrac before he and Cosette managed to buy a house together, a dilapidated old thing that they renovated themselves (with help from friends and the firm and yes even he has spent weekends caulking bathrooms and laying tile in the kitchen). But Enjolras has yet to see it in its full glory, because after over a year of work they finally finished it last month, a month that he spent up to his ears in case files.

And there’s a little guilt there, because Cosette cares about nothing so much as family and he so often forgets to call and visit, which he knows drives her mad. After  their mother’s death his sister promised to go to any length to keep their tiny family close, and since their father passed away just after her wedding she has only tried harder.

Which is perhaps the reason why they’re sitting at his kitchen counter in the middle of the afternoon in the middle of July with a small birthday cake. And why Cosette practically glows with happiness. He doesn’t want to deny his sister this.

(Truth be told, he never wants to deny his sister anything. He’s a terrible –– or fantastic –– older brother.)

“What about Thursday evening?” he offers, an appeasement. “We start late on Friday so I’ll be free that evening.” Actually, he’ll probably be up to his ears in notes for the closing statements on Friday but he can do that in the morning if he must. For Cosette.

“The game’s that night,” Marius mentions.

“We can watch it together,” Enjolras says, even though Marius is a hardcore PSG fan and Enjolras, despite being Parisian himself, has supported Marseille since he turned ten because it was his mother’s team.

“I refuse to let you keep her up past her bedtime,” Cosette tells them both. “But Thursday sounds fine.” In Enjolras’ arms the girl in question starts to fuss and her parents snap back to focus on her.

“Speaking of sleep,” Marius switches subjects smoothly, like the attorney he is. “I think it’s naptime.”

“You’re not telling me she actually sleeps,” Enjolras asks skeptically, bouncing her a little in his arms.

“One can hope,” Cosette sighs, reaching out to take the girl. He feels a little cold without her warm body pressed against his chest. “I think she’s hungry.”

“I don’t know if we have anything she will eat,” Enjolras frowns. To be honest they don’t have much by way of food at all at the moment because he’s been working too much to get out to the store and Combeferre, always at the hospital, keeps worse hours than he does (and even when he isn’t at work he tends to spend time at Eponine’s run-down place instead of the flat, because she’s closer to the hospital and because Combeferre is a good boyfriend). It will probably be instant coffee and energy bars for the next week, unless someone (probably Eponine, actually) takes pity on them and brings food.

Cosette gives him one of her looks, like she knows this is how he’s living, but it’s not his fault. He has a job to do and feeding himself just isn’t as important as making sure the people he represents have roofs over their heads and food for themselves and basic human rights.

“That’s fine,” Marius replies absently, shouldering the diaper bag. “We should be heading home anyways. You promise you’ll visit.”

“Next Thursday,” he says. “Yes.”

“If you don’t show I will find you,” Cosette threatens with a kiss to each cheek. “See you later, Enjolras.”

He shows them to the door and then settles on the couch with a cup of lukewarm coffee and the briefings from this weeks interviews. This case is large, if simple, and winning it will finally put their firm on the map after five years of struggling along.

Because their firm is tiny. There are four of them –– outgoing, ever-smiling Courfeyrac; lazy-but-brilliant Bahorel awkward and crazy smart Marius; himself –– who decided to start their own firm instead of selling out to a larger group. They were determined to stick together and do something for the people, not for the money, encouraged by their senior advisor. During one night of drinking and general excess and terrible puns, Courfeyrac produced _Les Amis de l’ABC_ and somehow (through a series of passionate arguments on Courfeyrac’s part and a blinding headache on Enjolras’) the name stuck.

Enjolras thinks the pun puts people off.  The first time he brought that up Bahorel laughed, slung an arm over his shoulder and pronounced, “O captain my captain, we are naught but young, nameless avocats who cater singularly to the poor.”

Feuilly (brilliant, hardworking Feuilly who keeps the books and deals with accounts and has no degree but knows the law better than some of them) frowns and says, always, “He’s right, you know. We need to step up our game.”

This case, this is stepping up their game. He is determined to win it.

Combeferre texts around sunset –– _Staying the night, thought you should know_ –– and Enjolras smiles at his friend’s caution. Near one he finishes reviewing his notes for the next day, every detail committed to memory. The dregs of his coffee lie on the coffee table, long-since gone cold, so he rinses the cup out and sheds his jeans and shirt on his way to bed, collapsing atop the covers in his undershirt and boxers, dead to the world within minutes.

(Once he would have stayed up for hours before a court day, but now court days and the evenings preceding them are par for the course, and sleep welcomes him with open arms.)

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Ladies, gentlemen, honorable judge,” he opens. He stands with easy grace in the center of the courtroom; this is his domain and he reigns supreme, like some sort of avenging god, his tie a vibrant red stripe between the crisp white of his shirt and the black cut of his jacket. He lives for his work, and nothing revitalizes him more than standing before a judge, arguing a case he knows forwards and backwards. Jehan Prouvaire, the sixth member of the firm and their clerk, grins at him across the courtroom. “Good morning.”

\--

The argument favors his client from the start, and by the time Thursday evening rolls around he has every member of the jury on his side. After the judge adjourns for the day he stops briefly to chat with the other _avocat_ , a tall man named Montparnasse whom Enjolras considers skilled and and an ass. He treats the case with bored disdain, barely trying.

“You’ve won it anyways,” the man laughs when Enjolras brings it up, cool and careless.

“That seems a lazy way to practice law,” says Enjolras. He dislikes the man’s suave, slick, oozing attitude. And the constant attempts at flirting. Yes, he’s gorgeous, but he’s also a crook who cheats his clients, and a creep. Enjolras is not interested. The man cannot take a hint.

“Indeed it does,” the man agrees with smiling eyes. “I will see you tomorrow, _monsieur_.”

Enjolras refuses to dignify him with a response as he walks away.

He stops by the office to drop off the files weighing down his work bag –– all the notes he will need in the morning are on the legal pad he’s bringing home –– and realizes only when he catches sight of the tiny clock on his desk that it is half-past seven and he is late to his sister’s house.

“Damn,” he mutters, switching his phone on while he locks up his office.

“Forgot something?” Courf asks him when he strides past the man’s open door. Their office is the top floor of a bookshop and lacks heating or air conditioning, which is why they can afford it. It has six cubicles and one actual office, which Courfeyrac won in a high-stakes game of rock-paper-scissors. Everyone else has a cubical, and the remaining desk is constantly buried under old case files covered in snippets of Prouvaire’s poetry that Courfeyrac cannot bear to throw away.

(Bahorel enjoys teasing him mercilessly for his crush but Enjolras supports his friend. Jehan has an uncanny ability to read people and dispense advice in the melancholy, poetic way of his. Enjolras likes the man.)

“Dinner with Marius and Cosette,” Enjolras says. Marius is long gone. “She’s going to kill me.”

“I don’t know how someone can be so wonderfully kind and also terrifying,” Courf commiserates. “Actually, no. She’s related to you. Never mind.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras returns dryly, heading for the stairs.

“You are most welcome, my friend,” Courfeyrac grins behind him.

When his phone finally wakes up it buzzes with messages, almost a dozen from Cosette getting less grammatically correct and more irritated. His fingers tap across the keyboard.

 _Got held up_ , he sends. _Be there shortly._

Seconds later his phone vibrates in his hand. He doesn’t check it immediately –– he has weave his way through the metro and that requires full attention to one’s surroundings –– but before he loses his connection to the underground he reads his sister’s response.

_bring wine and maybe i won’t disown you._

He snorts and texts her back. _You could try._

He will be even later, but he also knows better than to ignore a request from Cosette. So when he steps out onto the street again he stops at a store on his way to their place and purchases a nice red. It’s almost eight by the time he reaches their home, a sweet two-story building with white trim and a small, neat garden in the front verdant with life even in the dim light of the setting sun. The boxes of rubble and old paint cans have been removed from the curb. He takes the porch steps two at a time and knocks twice. His sister throws the door open with a theatrical sigh.

“Finally,” she huffs.

“I brought wine,” he says before she can start, holding out the bottle like a peace offering, or perhaps a shield.

“So we won’t kick you out,” Marius jokes behind her. Geneviève squawks at his shoulder. “Cosette, let him in.”

“You’re late,” she tells him (as if he doesn’t already know it) but she steps aside anyways to let him in.

“I got held up at the courthouse.”

“How’s the case?” his brother-in-law asks, holding Ginette’s hands so she can half-walk herself into the kitchen before strapping her into the high chair. She squawks again and spills cereal all over the floor. “No, _petite_ , don’t do that.” Cosette disappears to find a broom. “Sorry I haven’t been able to stop by."

“You’ve missed nothing worth mentioning,” Enjolras ensures him. “Patron-Minette might be a well-known firm but they concoct poor arguments.”

“All the better for us,” Marius says. “Assuming we win.”

“Which you will,” Cosette tells him, returning with the broom. “Because Enjolras is a fantastic orator and a really scary lawyer. And you’ll finally be able to pay rent on your office.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says dryly. She smiles sweetly and hands him the dustpan.

“Since you’re so late we don’t have time for the bourguignon I was hoping to make,” she says as she shifts the mix of dirt and cereal into the waiting dustpan. “So we’ll be having potatoes and what’s left of the beef. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Everything you make is incredible,” Enjolras tells her, dumping the trash in the bin and handing her the dustpan again. “I doubt this will be any different.”

She smiles a little at the praise and hides it by putting the broom away again. Marius opens the wine and pours each of them a glass. Cosette takes hers delicately, dropping a kiss on her husband’s cheek. Enjolras watches them fondly and takes a sip.

“This is good,” Marius says. “Where’d you get it?”

“That _marché_ down the road has a good selection.” Marius hums in agreement.

“Could you pass me the cutting board?” Cosette asks, reaching around Enjolras. “And then get out from behind the counter. I can’t cook around you. Go watch your game.”

“Yes ma’am,” Marius replies with a sharp salute and a stolen kiss. He and Enjolras retire to the living room and turn on the TV to find Paris Saint-Germain neck in neck with Marseille.

“Your team sucks,” Marius tells him as the defense beats the offense to the ball for the third time.

“My team isn’t a corporate entity that crushes any opposition it comes across,” Enjolras says. “And my team has far better ball control than PSG.”

“Who cares about corporations, it’s the Paris football team. Why do you cheer for Marseille anyways?”

“Why not?” Enjolras asks. Marius’ answer never arrives, because at that moment his team gets a player through the defense and he has to stop arguing to cheer them on.

“Take the shot, take the shot,” his brother-in-law chants under his breath, but Cavani hits the post instead, and Enjolras can’t help but pump a fist as the miss.

“There’s no way they’re going to beat PSG,” Marius says sullenly.

“They’re second in the league,” Enjolras returns easily, watching the ball arc across the field. It might have evolved into a proper argument (one he is sure to win because he can change anyone’s mind with his words, even a fellow lawyers, and his team is good) but something pops in the kitchen and a sound akin to ripping cuts through the chatter of football commentary coming from the TV. They both fall silent.

“Cosette?” Marius calls. No response. Then Geneviève begins to cry, shrill panicked wails that send fear shooting through the men. They spring to their feet as one, rushing towards the closed kitchen door.

Enjolras reaches it first, wrenching the door handle. Unexpected heat radiates towards him and then the door blows backwards and he falls, burning air rushing past and turning uncovered skin angry red. There is a fire in the kitchen. It eats up the side of the building, licking its way around the room and up the walls to the second story, following the paths of newly-installed gas pipes around the house. Shards of what used to be the oven are strewn around and thick, dark smoke billows outwards. It looks as if it exploded. Marius rushes past him over him and rushes to the closest person in the room –– his screaming daughter.

“Take her,” he orders, unbuckling the child and carrying her through the doorway into Enjolras’ arms as he pushes himself to his feet. The kitchen door swings shut behind him, but the heat radiates through. “Take her and get out of here.” He turns back to the kitchen. When he opens the door Enjolras can see nothing except the thick black smoke rolling towards them. He crouches, pressing Ginette close, trying to keep her clear of the fumes.

“You can’t go back in there,” Enjolras shouts at him over crackling fire. He sees Cosette through the smoke, pale skin ghostlike as she scrambles towards the kitchen door. A cabinet tumbles across her path and she disappears with a cry. “Marius––”

“I’m not leaving without her,” his friend shouts back. Enjolras makes to grab for him, to force him out of the fire and into the safety of the clean air outside, but Marius dances away from his reach, and Enjolras will not dare drop his niece.

“Your daughter needs you,” he says. Ginette bawls in agreement.

“And I need Cosette,” he snaps. He stills for just a moment to stare at Enjolras, both of them crouched beneath the roiling smoke. His eyes, red and watering from the heat and ash, seem at that moment miles deep. “Please understand, Enjolras.”

He does, damn it all. She’s his sister too. He would change places with Marius in less than a heartbeat.

“Be careful,” he says instead, helpless and hating it.

“Thank you,” Marius says, voice nearly indiscernible beneath the fire. “Just–– take care of her. Please.”

“I will,” Enjolras promises, and the weight of it steals his breath away. Within the kitchen Cosette calls out, and even though it rips his heart out he turns around and runs from her, from his brother-in-law and his sister and the fire, Geneviève clutched in his arms like his last, prized possession.

Outside emergency vehicles pull up, sirens shrill. The night air cuts him; it’s like ice after the unbearable heat of the fire. Men in thick neon suits run in as he stumbles out. Someone catches him and leads him to the street, choking and coughing and dusted in soot. There are gentle hands guiding him and then cold metal –– the back of an ambulance, he thinks. Someone slips an oxygen mask over his mouth but he doesn’t need it; he needs to know about his family, where is Cosette, is Marius alright, are they out yet. Someone drapes a blanket over his shoulders and he shrugs it off, unwilling to accept the comfort. A kind-looking woman with dark hair tries to take Ginette but he only holds her tighter, no matter how much they tell him they need to check her over, need to make sure she’s okay after breathing in all that smoke.

“So check her over,” Enjolras orders as he removes the oxygen mask for the second time –– they keep putting it back on him. Even raspy and faint his voice cannot be denied. “I am not letting go of her.”

In the end they give up and the woman produces a stethoscope and begins checking over the girl. The paramedic with the blanket slips it over his shoulders, and gives him a stern, “Don’t,” when he tries to shrug it off again, so he lets it rest there, ridiculously orange and surprisingly comforting. He accepts the oxygen again too, breathing deeply as the burning in his lungs lessens.

The fire climbs the house even as the firemen turn their hoses on it, spraying down the building with a constant blast of pressurized water. As the blaze begins to splutter out, two men exit the building with people slumped over their backs. Enjolras tries to stand as soon as he sees them, but the stern paramedic with the blanket and the oxygen mask presses down on his shoulder and he sits again, neck craning and hope dying. The woman tending to Geneviève gets up and talks quietly to one of the paramedics as he slips the body off his shoulder and lays it on the ground. Enjolras can see orange-black skin in the light of the streetlamp and the remains of a teal dress. He closes his eyes against the sight. Marius lies next to her, less charred and eyes closed and chest still. He doesn’t need the soft words of the paramedic to know what has happened.

Ginette sleeps quietly in his arms, and through the numbness he thinks how wrong it is, for the girl to be calmly sleeping when her parents lie dead mere feet from here.

(Somewhere else he thanks a God he doesn’t believe in for sparing her the sight. He hopes it was quick.)

“My sister,” he tells the police officer who arrives with a notepad and too many questions, tongue heavy and mouth dry. “And her husband. Cosette and Marius Pontmercy.”

“Do you have someone you can stay with, _monsieur_?” the man asks. Ginette snuffles in his arms.

“I– Yes.” Yes, Combeferre does not work tonight, the one blessing among this horror. “Yes, my roommate–”

“Ask him to pick you up,” says the officer. “The paramedics say you shouldn’t be driving.”

Enjolras wants to protest he doesn’t drive, that no one drives in Paris if they don’t have to, but the words change in his throat to a question.

“Do they know what– how it started?”

“Gas leak,” the officer tells him. “Stove wasn’t hooked up right or something like that.”

Enjolras nods and lets the man leave to do his job. He pulls out his phone and stops to collect himself. Ginette shifts a little in his lap as he pulls up Combeferre’s contact information.

(There’s a little note unders his name, _in case of emergency_ , and Enjolras never though he would actually have to use this number for that purpose.)

“Enjolras?” his friend answers, sounding harried.

The words stick in his throat and tears prickle in his eyes. He swallows it all down and tries again.

“Something happened,” he manages. “An accident. Cosette and Marius––” The words stick again, but Combeferre understands enough.

“You’re there?” his friend asks.

“Yeah.”

“Stay,” he orders. “I’ll be over as soon as possible.”

The other side clicks dead, and Enjolras sits back down in the ambulance. Ginette’s nurse brings him a bottle of water and sympathy. Enjolras accepts them both silently.

True to his word, Combeferre shows up ten minutes later, still in scrubs and half-jogging. His glasses sit crooked on his nose, and his sharp eyes behind them take in the scene in a glance. Enjolras sees the tension in his shoulders when his eyes fall on their friends, and the sorrow in his eyes when he looks towards Enjolras.

“Are you alright?” he asks when he approaches.

“I’m unharmed,” he replies, which isn’t what his friend wants to know but will suffice for now. Combeferre doesn’t push, which Enjolras thanks him for, which Enjolras will always thank him for. Instead he guides Enjolras with a gentle arm and far too much caution. Enjolras resents that. He is not some delicate thing that will shatter. He is strong as iron, and does not break. (He feels cracked, spiderwebs threatening to buckle under the slightest pressure, and holds himself together with willpower and stubbornness.)

They take the metro, the ride to their flat silent, and Enjolras sits next to Combeferre with his head back and his eyes closed. Combeferre keeps a gentle hand on his knee through the ride. Enjolras appreciates the support.

In his arms little orphan Geneviève sleeps soundly. He doesn’t know what to do with her. He cannot put her down.

“You should shower,” Combeferre says first when they reach their place, voice soft and sad. Enjolras is not the only one who has lost a friend. “I’ll bring you something to change into.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras replies, and he means for more than just the clothes. Combeferre nods and straightens his glasses and disappears down the hall. Enjolras, after a moment of exhausted panic, finds the throw blanket and tosses it over the sofa, then places little Ginette on it to continue sleeping. She stirs a little but does not wake, and he disappears into the bathroom. He trusts Combeferre with Ginette. He does, after all, work at the Necker.

He turns on the water, letting it warm as he undresses. The suit comes off carefully, folded neatly despite the soot and the staining and the fact that he will never wear it again. Once everything has been neatly stacked, including socks and tie and underwear, he steps under the spray of the shower. It turns grey where it runs off, ash washing out of his hair and down the drain. He watches, seeing Cosette and Marius laid out side by side under the streetlight. Numbness creeps in, settling deep in his chest. Only the thought of little Geneviève lying on the couch stirs him, but that feeling is panic and horror and those are even worse than numbness, so he shakes them away and lets the numbness stay as he washes his hair. He knows it will be far better for everyone if he does not have a panic attack in the middle of the shower. Both Combeferre and his dignity will appreciate it.

There are fresh clothes lying outside the door when he turns off the water and steps out, worn sweatpants and an old t-shirt that once sported the Captain America logo –– for their own blond freedom fighter, his friends said when they gifted it to him. He pulls the clothes on and towels his hair dry (there is no point in combing it even on good days; it will only curl back into a nest of gold-stranded chaos until it gets long enough to tie back, and then he cuts it short again) and steps out into the hall. Ginette is still on the couch. He scoops her up and sits in her place. She huffs against his chest in her sleep. Combeferre appears in the entrance to the kitchen moments later with a cup of tea and guarded eyes.

“I am not going to break,” Enjolras says when it becomes clear his friend will not interrupt the silence. He is proud of how strong, even sharp, his voice sounds.

“I know,” Combeferre returns. “But you aren’t the type to bend either, and I don’t want to push too far.” He steps forward and offers a mug, vibrant red with _putain_ written in bright silver marker across the side. (Everyone calls it the Enjolras mug, because it’s bright and red and rude. Enjolras takes offense to the third, but he uses the thing anyways.

The history of a coffee mug are the last thing on his mind right now.)

“I am––” Fine, he wants to say, but he isn’t. He knows he isn’t. “I will be alright,” he settles for instead. “I’m not the only one who lost them, Combeferre.”

“No,” his friend agrees, sitting next to him. Enjolras leans into the solid warmth against his side. “But they were your family too.”

“Yes,” Enjolras allows. “They were.”

Combeferre lets the silence stretch. Enjolras takes a sip of his drink, steam smelling like apples and spice. “What are you going to do?” his friend asks softly.

Enjolras sighs quietly. He knows what must be done, of course. Wills must be read and affairs dealt with and of course Geneviève needs care. The firm needs another partner. The logical, technical checklist forms in his mind eye, coming easily. But that is not what his friend means, and so it is a much more difficult question.

Except, he knows what he will do. He will honor his promise to Marius. He will take care of Geneviève. The thought of it, of becoming the guardian of a twelve month old baby –– the thought of raising a child –– terrifies him more than anything, more than taking the bar exam or his first day in court or Cosette’s temper. But he made a promise. Enjolras keeps his promises.

“I’ll adopt her,” he says aloud, firm in his decision. “And I’ll probably need to cut back on hours at the firm. We’ll need to hire another hand. I think I should move out.”

“You want to move?” Combeferre asks, like he’s crazy, which maybe he is.

“We don’t have the space here to raise a child,” he shrugs, because it’s obvious that their tiny batchelor’s flat, the one they’ve shared since university, doesn’t have the space they need. “And I know you want to ask Eponine to move in––”

“That’s not important right now,” Combeferre waves him off. “In light of all of this––”

“You should still ask,” Enjolras argues, not letting him finish his argument. “Maybe even because of this. We’ll need each other, I think.” Members of their family –– because they are all a family, one of choice if not of blood –– have died and his friends will need each other.

“I’ll help you, if that’s what you want,” Combeferre replies with a sigh after a minute of silent assessment.

Enjolras lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His best friend’s acceptance means more to him than anything else he can think of at the moment. “Thank you.”

“You should sleep."

“I have to be in court in the morning,” Enjolras murmurs, and a line appears between Combeferre’s brows.

“You’re going to go to work tomorrow?” he asks, incredulous. “After this?” After tonight, he means.

“We’ve got to close the case,” he says. He cannot leave it now, not when they are so close to being done, not when another wrong is so close to being righted. Not now that finally his firm is getting somewhere.

“You shouldn’t go.”

“I have to.”

“You aren’t emotionally stable.”

“I will be.”

“Who will watch Ginette? You can’t leave her alone.”

“I’ll ask Eponine.” Eponine, who works evenings as the _maître de_ at a local restaurant and will therefore be free the following morning. “Or maybe Jehan.” Jehan who is calm and soft and will take good care of Marius’ daughter. “Just for the morning. But we are so close to finishing this.” He will not let heartbreak stop him from finishing a case. This single-minded focus drives–– no, drove Cosette crazy, but he cannot stop being who he is. Not even for this. He understands in a sort of hypocritical way why this lifestyle irritated her. Maybe she’d finally be pleased that he’s going to give it up.

“It’s my case,” he tells his best friend. “I can’t not finish it.”

Combeferre scowls but drops the argument. He knows as well as Enjolras does that there is no point in attempting to change his mind.

“If you’ll go to sleep now I’ll ask ‘Ponine to watch Ginette. But I swear, Enjolras, I am not letting you work through this so you don’t have to face it.”

His friend knows him too well.

“Thank you,” he says, knowing it will be enough. Combeferre will understand.

For a long moment they sit, pressed together side by side, sharing strength and hurt. (Enjolras remembers sitting like this after his father died too, all day side by side on their couch.)

“They are not mine to mourn alone,” Enjolras says softly. “Take care of yourself too.”

“I’ll do my best,” Combeferre promises with a faint smile. He stretches a little and stands. “Goodnight,” the doctor tells him. “Remember that I am here.” Please don’t shut me out, he’s asking. Enjolras does a poor job of asking for help.

“Goodnight,” the lawyer replies softly, standing as well. Heavy in his arms Ginette mumbles nonsense and yawns. Enjolras turns the lights out as he leaves the room.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry.


	3. Chapter 3

Ginette wakes up around midnight, hungry and with a soggy diaper. Enjolras groans and flickers on the light.

“I have no food for you, _petite_ ,” he tells her, lifting her from the makeshift bed on the floor next to his. He has no spare diapers either, but he makes do with a hand towel and some safety pins scrounged from a drawer in the kitchen. He finds applesauce in the pantry as well, a stroke of luck because neither of them have gone shopping this week. He feeds the girl in small spoonfuls, trying not to fall asleep sitting up. But Ginette does not stay awake for long, and soon she falls asleep again, lying against his leg, curled up and sucking her thumb. Enjolras watches the rise and fall of her chest in the dark until sleep claims him again.

He dreams of fire and burning and isolation. No matter how loudly he screams no one hears him, and the flames choke him with smoke and heat. He wakes up to find the clock next to his bed reads 2:03 in blinking red letters.

He shuts his eyes but sleep eludes him, so he gives up and picks up Ginette and pads through the apartment in bare feet.

In his room Combeferre is awake too, blankets tosses aside and head pillowed on his hands, staring blindly at the ceiling.

Enjolras settles next to him without speaking. For years they have been closer than brothers. Neither needs permission to seek comfort from the other.

(They sleep with Ginette between them, curled around her like sentinels, on watch for the outside world creeping in.)

Geneviève wakes again just after five, and he changes her again, careful to let Combeferre sleep. This time she quiets after he changes the diaper, not hungry, so he soothes her back to sleep.

At half-past six the alarm on his phone goes off, and he fights his way towards wakefulness. Combeferre, on the other side of the bed, snores a little and rolls over. Enjolras sighs and lets his head sink further into the pillow. He could, conceivably, go back to sleep –– he doesn’t need to be in court until ten. But his eyes feel like grit and his mouth takes like something died in there and everything smells like smoke and he doesn’t want to face any more dreams. So he drags himself out of bed and enters the kitchen like a zombie to make himself a pot of coffee, and tries not to think. On the clock above the stove the minutes tick by. He leans on the counter and watches mutely. Everything feels heavy, weighted down by sorrow.

The coffee beeps and he pours himself a cup. It wakes him up, washes the taste of ash out of his mouth. Combeferre arrives moments later, roused by the promise of caffeine. He rubs his eyes with one hand. In the other arm he holds Ginette, dozing and bleary.

“How long will today’s session be?” Combeferre asks him when he enters the kitchen. Enjolras trades him a mug –– with cream, stirred twice; Combeferre is very particular about his coffee –– for the girl and lets his roommate settle his glasses on his face.

“Only as long as it takes the jury to decide the case,” he replies, bouncing Ginette softly. She moulds herself to his chest and dozes off again. Enjolras drinks his coffee.

“And then you’ll come home?”

“I have a lot of paperwork to go through,” he starts, scrubbing his free hand across his face. He’ll need to shave soon but he doesn’t want to. His friend looks ready to argue, so he shrugs and changes his mind. “I may as well do it here.”

\--

They win the case. Montparnasse shakes his hand afterwards and asks him out for drinks. Enjolras doesn’t bother with politeness when he turns the man down.

Outside the courthouse Eponine waits for him with Geneviève. He leaves his client with a kind word and strides over. Eponine passes his niece to him without a word.

“How was she?” he asks. The girl grins when she sees him and tangles her fingers in his hair. He extracts them gently and considers a haircut.

“An angel,” Eponine says. “Combeferre wanted me to tell you to stop by the office if you must but don’t overwork yourself.”

“He could stand to follow the same advice.”

“I know,” Eponine sighs. She drops a light kiss on his cheek. It warms his heart to see a girl who had so little come so far. “But he has me to take care of him. You tend not to listen to anyone.”

“I’ll do my best,” Enjolras promises her.

“That’s all I ask,” she smiles. The light behind her eyes flickers. She and Cosette were never the best of friends, Enjolras knows, but she loved Marius through everything.

“Take care of yourself as well?” he requests of her. Her smile dims.

“I will,” she says. “I have to go, though, I’m supposed to be somewhere. That’s why I came to find you––” The excuse rings false but more than anything Enjolras understands the need to mourn in private where no one can see any sign of weakness, so he thanks her again and watches her leave.

“As for you and I,” he says to Ginette, “there are things we need to do.”

Sooner or later he will have to explain to everyone what has happened. He wishes it were later. But there is no point in holding it back from the firm, family that they are. He already feels guilty for keeping this to himself overnight.

Ginette, warm against his chest, tugs on his hair again and then holds it up to her own, comparing, before she stuffs it in her mouth.

“You are going to look just like your _maman_ ,” he tells her, tugging blond strands free. “I’m glad of that, at least.”

She burbles all the way to the metro stop.

\--

He arrives at their tiny third-floor office space just after lunch. He doesn’t expect everyone to be there –– Bahorel in particular tends to skip out early for the weekend –– but everyone is in. Everyone is in and everyone stands when he arrives.

The question must be written across his face because Courfeyrac comes up to him and says, softly, “Combeferre called.”

“Oh.” Of course he has. That explains why Jehan is crying silently, tears trailing down his face unchecked, and why Courfeyrac’s constant humor and warmth seems quenched. (Marius was Enjolras’ brother, but he was Courfeyrac’s friend first.) “I came in to let you know.”

“So it’s true?” Feuilly asks, a gentle hand resting on Jehan’s shoulder.

“Yes,” Enjolras tells them with heavy heart.

“And Geneviève––?” Jehan asks hesitantly, looking at the girl in his arms. She calmed on the metro ride to the office (and Enjolras has already decided he doesn’t like taking the girl on the trains, no matter how much she enjoys them and how little he can afford the costs of a car in Paris; the thought of losing her to the chaos and the press of people leaves him weak at the knees) and now she stares around solemnly, like she understands the weight of the situation.

“Is unharmed,” he assures. “Cosette named me her legal guardian if something like–– if anything happened. But I promise I will do my utmost to remain here for as long as I am needed. I believe we will have need of each other’s support in the coming days.”

“What are we going to do?” Courfeyrac asks into the silence that follows his statement. Enjolras hates hearing his friend sound so heartbroken.

But this, a question to answer, plays to his strength as a leader and a speaker and the chief among this group. He stands a little straighter.

“We are going to go on,” he says. “We are going to continue to serve those who need our help and we are going to continue to stand with each other. We are going to remember them and honor them. And we are going to keep living, because neither of them would accept it if we stopped.”

It has the response he hopes. Tears don’t dry nor does sorrow disappear but the words lift some weight from everyone’s shoulders. Jehan smiles through his sorrow. Bahorel nods solemnly. Courfeyrac claps him on the shoulder. (Enjolras tells himself his friend does not cling like a drowning man.)

“Well said,” Feuilly says softly.

“And so, if dark thoughts should my spirit shroud/ I shall find friends in dusty memory,” murmurs Jehan.

Enjolras studies law, not poetry, but any words spoken with their clerk’s melancholy beauty could be the perfect words, he sometimes thinks.

“Go home,” Enjolras tells them. “Step out of the office and get some fresh air and sunlight,” he smiles. It comes out sadder than he intended.

They nod solemnly and offer support, small gestures and light brushes, palms on backs and hands to shoulders. Enjolras watches them collect their things with warmth. Here is his family, one they all chose for themselves. Together they will survive this.

“You’re sure you don’t want us to stay?” Courfeyrac asks him on his way out the door.

“I’m certain,” Enjolras replies. (He will be strong for them.) “I need to pick up some things.” The will Marius kept on file in his desk, chiefly, though he also needs to clear out the cubicle, leave it empty and waiting for whoever they find to fill this missing piece of their puzzle, patch up the hole before they all unravel.

(Combeferre will berate him for staying but he wants solitude for this task.)

When they arrive back on Monday they will frown and sulk and berate him as well, but Enjolras knows from experience that a clean slate will help them far more than an untouched shrine.

(His father never touched his mother’s bedside table after she died except to dust it and, now and again as the years passed, gently brush fingers across the items left atop the piece of furniture as if they were the ghost of his wife, briefly his to hold. Enjolras remembers being ten, weeks after the funeral, finding his father sitting in the middle of their too-large, always-empty bed gently fingering through a half-finished book.

“She never finished it,” his father told him without looking up. “I wonder if she’d have liked the ending.”

“I miss her.”

“Me too, _mon ange_. Me too.”

Angel was his mother’s nickname for him. That night, sitting together on the bed with his father and reading the book his mother never finished, was the first and last time his father ever used it.)

He shakes away the memory and returns to the empty office. Ginette squirms in his arms so he sets her down with a blue stuffed elephant he found in a shop window on their way here and a bowl of cereal. She busies herself happily by pulling herself up against the cubicle walls and falling down.

Enjolras busies himself with the stack of paperwork sitting on his brother-in-law’s desk. The will he pulls out of its folder and tucks in his own bag. Then he sits in his friend’s chair and sets to slowly, methodically boxing and removing this reminder. (He does not cry. He feels like a terrible brother for it, but he does not cry.)

Yesterday he had a sister and a brother and a second home. Today he hides the remains and makes plans to move on.

As if it’s that easy.

\--

The funeral takes place the following Thursday, after the boxes have been packed away and he has spoken to a new landlord and the will has been read and Ginette’s paperwork is in order.

Ginette, who he now cares for. Ginette, on the cusp of speaking and walking, small and insistent and so vibrantly alive. Over the next few days there are moments when Enjolras thinks he will collapse under the weight of it –– his friends’ sorrow, the laundry list of things that need to be looked into, the looming fears of fatherhood, the emptiness that refuses to leave him be –– were it not for her need. So instead of wallowing and wishing he does what he does best and throws his emotion into a cause. Ginette shares few similarities with his crusades of the past but she presents a job and, as Cosette always pointed out, his dedication to his job will awe anyone.

So he gives the girl his all, determined to be there for her, because now no one else is.

No, that’s a lie. The pair receive an outpouring of offers for aid and companionship. When they move out the entire firm shows up to help him cart his meagre belongings across town to the new flat. Eponine and Combeferre gift him with a crib, “and the sides come down so it can be a bed, when you get there.” Between Jehan, Bahorel and Courfeyrac the receive a full set of (ridiculously mismatched) kitchenware. Feuilly shows up two hours late with a box filled with old, intricately handpainted fans, his personal hobby. “To decorate,” he explains, “Bahorel sent me pictures and you could use some color.” They spend a day (a week and a half After, a hot Sunday in the earliest parts of August) laughing and remembering and trying not to drop the couch Bahorel found on the side of the road as they force it up two flights of stairs to the second floor, apartment number two thirteen.

(Live, Cosette told their father after their mother died, seven and filled with life. Live like Maman would have wanted. That Sunday, bright and shining despite the sorrow, they live.)

It settles again, but it settles wrong, like someone got up and moved something and never returned it to its right place. They read up on cases and old laws and go to court. Marius’ desk squats in the corner of his bare cubicle and stares out at them, challenging. They put up a memorial near the coffee maker, four candles surrounding a photograph of Cosette and Marius taken just before they married. Sometimes, when everyone else is out of the building, Enjolras lights the candles and works at the adjacent table, watching the light flicker and the wax melt.

More and more everyone is out of the building. Bahorel doesn’t bother coming in most days, working from home or from court (and when he shows up he sports bruises and splinted wrists and shrugs off their concern, mentioning boxing before vanishing into his computer). Feuilly takes his computerized spreadsheets and his receipts and sits at the coffee shop down the street, the one with the cute barista who gave him her number. Courfeyrac and Jehan come in together one morning and leave together another afternoon and within days they can only be found in each other’s company. Enjolras doesn’t begrudge them that. They all need companionship, and he supports them all as much as he can, watching them go out in the world and find connections and slowly but surely heal.

He does not find those connections. Not because he does not want them –– watching his friends find each other fills him with a constant ache –– but because he does not have the time, between the job and navigating the perils of guardianship and dealing with the paperwork that Marius’ remaining family refuses to touch.

To top it all off, Geneviève understands after about two weeks that Maman and Papa are not returning, and once she realizes that her little heart breaks. Enjolras receives the brunt of that hurt. Nothing stops her from throwing tantrums, bawling and screaming and throwing away anything he tries to give her. She will not take food, she will not play. She falls asleep from exhaustion and wakes up crying. And once it starts it does not stop. He tries and tries but she refuses to be cheered up, and he finds himself lingering on his own guilt in this.

(If only he had tried harder, if only he had realized sooner, if only. What ifs do no good, but they plague him anyways, in the middle of the night when all he wants is sleep and instead he dreams about fire and asks himself what he will do wrong next.)

His friends would snap him out of this. His friends wait for him to come to them, to ask for help the same way they have asked him. But he has a hard time asking for help, and he is loath to burden them when they already carry so much.

He is fine. He can carry on a little longer. He will not break. He does not need their help yet.

(He’s not sure how to ask for it in the first place.)

The first time Ginette keeps him up all night he cries with her, exhausted and alone at half-past three in the morning one humid night in September, rocking her while he paces back and forth, hoping that the movement will sooth her. It’s the first time he cries since That Day, and he’s ashamed to know these tears are for himself as much as they are for her and for Cosette and Marius.

(Day after day the circles under his eyes grow, turning his face pale and strange. He has tried taking her out for walks. Daily they ride the metro despite his fears, because he doesn’t have the money for a car, but that does little to lighten her mood. The matron of the daycare he enrolled her in mentions taking her out of the program, “just until she can interact with the other children again, _monsieur_.” He doesn’t know what to do.

It’s a new feeling, this helplessness. He hates it.)

“I’m sorry, Ginette,” he tells her over and over again in the dark of the living room while she whimpers and tries to push him away, tiny fingers curled into fists and feather-light hair matted with sweat. “I’m sorry, I miss them too. I’m sorry.” Sorry he could not save them, sorry he is not as good a guardian, sorry any of this has happened. “Please stop crying,” he begs her, but she stops whimpering only to start screaming again, the cutting wail of an infant that makes him want to run and run until he cannot hear it anymore. The clock in the kitchen strikes four.

He cannot run. He promised Marius. So he sits on the couch and cries with her.

\--

He gives up not long after and stops sending her to to the daycare. Instead he takes her with him when he goes to work.

In a surprising turn of events, this boosts morale more than he imagined.

“She’s so big,” Courfeyrac marvels when she clings to his hands and takes shaky steps forward. “Has she started talking yet?”

“Not yet,” Enjolras says. In truth she has reverted back to hand signs, unwilling to speak with him. “Maybe you can coax a word or two out of her.”

“That’s Jehan’s sphere,” his old friend says with a shining smile. “He has a far better grasp of language than I could ever hope. I could sit and listen to him talk for hours.”

“I’m glad he makes you happy,” Enjolras says.

“Me too,” says Courf, like a lovelorn schoolboy. It’s a good look on him, Enjolras thinks.

(This untainted joy is what makes him so unwilling to bring up his personal problems. He is cold as ice and bold as fire. He will be fine.)

So, with Ginette sitting on the carpet or crawling back and forth and untying shoes and teething on pen caps, the firm works to put itself together again. Within weeks it becomes starkly apparent that a new attorney must fill Marius’ vacancy. They cannot keep up under this new load without someone else to take cases. Either they find another hand or they go under.

In this manner, half-coasting and half-drowning, the time goes by. Enjolras wakes one morning to realize a month has passed. Then six weeks, then eight. Almost two months. Combeferre unerringly stops by once a week, complaining that Enjolras is never in and he works too hard––

“You’ve always said that and I’ve always worked anyways.”

“Yes but now you have a daughter to care for, Enjolras.”

“She’s not my daughter.”

“She may as well be. No disrespect to Marius or Cosette, but you will raise her and she is your daughter whether you call her that or not.”

–– and Enjolras points out the Combeferre never calls him back and spends too much time telling him what to do. They say goodbye each week with tension around their eyes and half-soothed aches in their hearts.

(Enjolras always calls him back the next day and apologizes for rash words and promises to try harder.

“That’s all I ask,” Combeferre replies.)

At some point among everything Ginette takes her first steps, teetering across the kitchen and colliding with his knees while he makes dinner. She grins up at him and he laughs and picks her up, filled with congratulations and pride.

(Within moments both fade –– they belong to her parents; who is he to be standing here and experiencing this moment without them?)

She still doesn’t speak, though by this age (fourteen months, _le temps passe vite_ ) children supposedly start spewing words and never really stop. Enjolras comforts himself with the assumption that she stays silent out of spite (which, really, isn’t that comforting but it’s better than the alternative). Despite her unwillingness to eat or talk or do anything he asks of her, the girl remains healthy, which is all Enjolras can ask for, he supposes.

(His own care goes downhill, of course, but she is far more important than he is, and he made a promise.)

He finds himself cluess much more often than he would like. The baby development websites he searches find their way into the bookmarks folder on his computer, books collect on his shelves, and still he constantly feels that he never does enough. At work when she starts crying everyone brings her to him, expecting him to have the answers like he always does.

(He’s not quite sure how to tell them he doesn’t know either. At least Courf and Jehan stay at work now instead of going off and doing… whatever it is they were doing. He’d rather not think about it, no matter how good they are for each other.)

He discovers nine weeks in that she loves it when he sings and his voice fills the empty space her own once filled. He dreads the day she will outgrow that as well.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter Grantaire.

The first Friday in October he stops on the way home for diapers and baby food, both of which are ridiculously expensive. He buys more wipes while he’s there, and a few groceries –– pasta, peanut butter, fruit, food that is cheap and filling because they also have to pay rent and Enjolras hates pulling from the company pool, which is already so small. These days most everything he makes goes into rent, and bills, and Ginette’s constant need.

(It isn’t that they don’t have enough cases. More like they have too many. Enjolras hates to turn away anyone who needs them no matter how little they can pay, but at the same time they need enough profit to keep the firm afloat and finding the balance is difficult. It’s almost an improvement, to have one fewer paycheck to fill out, except that it leaves them drowning under caseload. There is no happy medium.)

Ginette, God bless her, stays quiet through this trip, playing with her blue stuffed elephant. Enjolras looks at her, thinking for a moment that this could be what it really would have been like, taking his niece to the store to give Cosette and Marius a break.

He shakes the thoughts away. He knows better than this. Dwelling on the might-have-beens do no good.

They make it all the way to the apartment building before Geneviève gets fussy, throwing things over his shoulder and batting his hands away when he tries to sooth her. He almost drops the groceries twice as he takes the stairs because she keeps trying to wiggle out of his arms, and when he gets to the door he realises she has taken his keys out of his pocket somewhere between the street and their front door.

He drops the bags on the ground, not caring if the fruit bruises or the diapers tumble out, and slides down the door. Gineviève starts crying properly and he covers his eyes with a hand. The other he dances across Ginette’s stomach in an attempt to calm her down, but she only hits it away.

“Please, _petite_ ,” he mutters to the dark inside of his eyelids. “It’s been weeks. I’m doing all I can here.” She keeps crying, wuffling sobs that wrack her body and Enjolras feels like a terrible person except he’s too exhausted to care.

“Wow, dude,” someone says above him. “You look like shit.”

“ _Casse-toi_ ,” Enjolras replies without looking up or opening his eyes. He rubs his hand down his face. Stubble scratches against his palm.

(He needs to shave. He’s supposed to be in court later this week.)

Above him the owner of the voice shuffles a little and then the color of the darkness against his eyelids changes, a shadow falling over him. Enjolras sighs and forces his eyes open.

The man looks about his age, maybe, with messy dark hair and blue eyes and jeans worn threadbare. His shirt is rumpled and his cheeks unshaven and his shoes peel where the soles meet canvas, but his eyes are bright and his smile crooked but open and Enjolras feels his breath catch.

All while he looks like shit, with bags under his eyes and wrinkled shirt and crying baby. And he just insulted the guy. At least, he comforts himself, since he has hit rock bottom he can only go up from here.

“No need to be rude,” the man frowns, crouching down. Enjolras sighs and lets his head fall back against the door again with a thunk. Ginette starts to roll out of his lap but he scoops her up against him before she can wriggle all way out and toddle off. Unhappy with the change, she pushes at his chest and cries a little louder.

“Sorry,” Enjolras says shortly to the man, glancing up briefly as he tries to shush the girl. He shouldn’t take the unfair turn his life has taken out on this (quite attractive) stranger. “Long day.”

“Yeah, looks like it,” the guy replies. “Do you, uh, need help or something? I mean, I’m not really ever like, any sort of use to anyone but you look pretty desperate. Nothing personal.”

Enjolras should wave him off, tell him he’s got it and that everything’s fine. Those are the platitudes he feeds everyone around him when they catch him less than ironclad (waving away Jehan’s concern and Feuilly’s worry and Courfeyrac’s boisterous attempts to inject cheer into everything). But when he opens his mouth the wrong words come out.

“How good are you with kids?” he asks, and then he snaps his teeth closed because that isn’t what he meant at all.

“I used to babysit my neighbor’s twins?” the guy half-asks, but he holds his arms out in the universal sign for ‘I can take the crying baby’ and Enjolras, damn him, passes Geneviève over to this complete stranger. (Cosette might actually come back from the grave to kick his ass.)

“Hey, cutie,” the man coos, settling to sit cross legged in the middle of the hall. Enjolras watches, exhaustion coursing through every vein in his body. He wants to sink into the floor and never get up. Let everything be someone else’s problem. But he cannot hand over responsibility. Combeferre has always said he has a complex. He likes to think he’s loyal.

The surprise of a brand new person shocks Ginette into quiet. Her pudgy hands reach for the man’s face, brushing against prickly stubble. He grins down at her with a crooked smile and rubs his chin against her soft hands. They look so comfortable. Enjolras remembers being that comfortable around the girl. Now he only gets spilled food and shrill cries in the early hours of the morning. He wants to hate the man, for receiving what he is denied, but instead something in him softens, seeing the girl curious and the stranger enraptured by her bright eyes and reaching hands.

“Feels weird, right?” the man asks. “That’s what happens when I don’t shave. Bet your dad gets like that too sometimes, hmm?”

“No,” Enjolras says, the tiny, sacred moment of contentment evaporating. “No, I’m not– Her parents aren’t–” They’re dead, just fucking say it already. “They died.”

“Oh,” the man says, sitting up straighter. Ginette complains at him and reaches up to stroke his chin again, so he hoists her up a little ways to accommodate. “Shit. Sorry.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras replies, because he’s never sure what to say when someone apologizes like that. (After all the apologies he’s gotten he ought to know, but he doesn’t. Never has.) “It’s okay. We’re getting through it. It’s just, she noticed they’re not here, and they won’t come back and it’s––” It’s miserable and he hates it and he doesn’t want to be her parent anymore, doesn’t want this life. “It’s tough.”

“I bet,” the man agrees, and then he winces. “Not that– _Merde_ , I’m terrible at this. Do you want me to go, cause I can go if you want.”

“Actually,” Enjolras says, surprising even himself, “would you mind watching her for a moment? I seem to have misplaced my keys.”

“Yeah, sure,” the man says. “No problem. I got her. Uh, what’s her name?”

“Geneviève,” Enjolras replies. “I’m Enjolras.”

“Grantaire,” the guy tells him. Enjolras nods and stands up. Grantaire shifts Ginette a little at his shoulder and watches him leave.

\--

When he gets back upstairs, keys in hand (he discovers them under the mail table on the _rez-de-chaussé_ ), he finds Grantaire sitting up against the wall with Ginette’s elephant in hand and the girl sitting in his lap, giggling.

“ _Bonjour_!” Grantaire says in a high-pitched voice. “ _Je m’appelle M. Éléphant!_ ”

Ginette giggles and claps her hands while the blue elephant does a little dance across her legs. Enjolras finds himself swallowing around a strange lump in his throat.

“Hey,” he says. Grantaire looks up and grins. Geneviève looks up too, and her smile dims. He pretends it doesn’t crush him. “Thanks.”

“Sure. No problem.” Enjolras unlocks the door and collects the groceries. Grantaire stands and passes Ginette back to him. The girl whimpers and makes grabby hands at Grantaire, who looks between her and Enjolras and steps back a little, shoving his hands in the pockets of his worn-out blue jeans. “I live in three oh six, if you need anything. Babysitter, someone to talk to. Y’know. Whatever.” He says it like it’s nothing. Enjolras could cry.

(He’s only scared away two babysitters so far but he can’t keep asking Jehan to watch the girl. Their clerk has to work too.)

“Thank you,” he says instead.

“Yeah, sure,” Grantaire shrugs. Enjolras bends down to pick up the groceries. “I’ll see you around.”

When he stands up again the man has disappeared.

The door swings lazily shut behind him, and he dumps the groceries on the counter. Ginette wiggles in his arms, demanding to be put down, so he sits her on the tile of the kitchenette and unpacks, keeping half an eye on her. She heads straight for the door again, tripping along on unsteady feet, but it’s solid and shut so she falls on her bottom to sit in front of the door and stare up at the handle.

“He lives upstairs,” Enjolras tells her. All the child development books, bought last-minute at a second-hand bookstore, say that communication and interaction help children learn and mature. “He’ll come back and visit sometime, okay?”

“Visit!” she exclaims at him. The novelty of willing communication surprises him, and at first he doesn’t realize that she’s actually speaking.

Actual words. First words.

(Cosette and Marius should be here but for the first time he doesn’t care about that.)

“Yeah,” he grins, leaving the stove momentarily to scoop her up and grin at her. “Yeah, visit.”

She grabs at his face and smiles back.

“We’ll invite him over later, okay?” he promises. He will do anything to keep that smile on her face. “Now come eat, _petite_. It’s late and you still have to take a bath.”

A brief battle ensues while he settles her in her high chair, but once he starts feeding her she calms down. Maybe it’s just because he bought pears today, because they’re her favorite. He wants to think it’s because finally she begins to realize that he isn’t the one who took her parents away.

“I miss them too,” he says while he feeds her, because even one-sided conversation is more intelligent than airplane noises. “But your _maman_ would hate it if we stopped living and clung on to the past like that. After Papa died she threw herself into her work. When Marius –– that’s your father, _petite_ –– told her she was working too hard she said to him, ‘Just because his life is over doesn’t mean mine is, and I intend to live it to the fullest.’ That was your mother.”

He sighs and feeds the girl another spoonful of mashed fruit. “Well, just because their lives are over doesn’t mean yours is, okay Ginette? I want you to live it to the fullest too.”

“Vwooooooom,” Ginette replies expectantly, and Enjolras acquiesces to her request and makes plane sounds as he brings her another mouthful of pear. She manages to get most of it into her mouth, and he scoops up the little bit that drips down her chin and bends down to kiss her on the forehead. She smells like baby powder and fruit.

“We’ll get by,” he tells her. “You and me, we can do this.”

She smiles a little and spits her mouthful of food all over her front and the table.

“Bathtime,” Enjolras decides. Her smile vanishes at the dreaded word, which she can understand even if she can’t say, and he sighs. One step forward and two steps back, the old dance. “ _Viens, petite_.”

\--

Tomorrow is Saturday, blessed Saturday, which means he doesn’t bother changing out of the sweats he sleeps in when Ginette wakes him up at half-past five in the morning, because he’s secretly a lazy, lazy man. He pads around the apartment barefooted, following Geneviève as she crawls around. Later, after the sun rises and Ginette is fed and dressed, he settles on the couch with his laptop, switching back and forth between activist sites on the internet (where he posts scathing responses to poorly-constructed arguments, and so far has been banned from three chat rooms) and building block towers with Geneviève. She knocks down everything he builds, which amuses him more than it should.

The day warms as it passes, and after lunch when Geneviève refuses to take a nap he thinks maybe the park, and a change of scenery, will do them good. He gets dressed and with minimal fussing puts shoes onto Ginette, and they take the five minute walk to the park. There he finds mothers abound following toddlers and children and a quartet of teenagers sitting on the monkey bars. He and Ginette settle near the sandbox, so she can eat sand to her heart’s desire and he won’t worry about a larger kid knocking her down as she crawls across the playscape.

He realizes the downsides of the park when one of the parents comes up to him, a dark-skinned woman with a brilliant smile and a darker-skinned toddler.

“She’s beautiful,” the woman tells him. “How old is she?”

“A year.”

“Armand is three,” she says, letting go of her son’s hand so he can dig in the sandbox too. Geneviève wobbles over watches him make a mound of sand, sticking a leaf atop the peak like a flag, before trying it herself. Enjolras contemplates taking a picture. There aren’t many pictures of the girl without Marius to take them constantly. “His father prefers he play indoors, but Joly is a hypochondriac. A little dirt won’t hurt him.”

“No,” Enjolras agrees, not knowing the correct response. “It won’t.”

To be honest he doesn’t want to talk to the parents here, happy with their own children. The woman does not seem to notice. Or maybe she simply does not care.

“I am Musichetta. But my friends call me Chetta.” Clearly, by the way she smiles at him, he should count himself among her friends. Enjolras feels a little like he’s just been adopted.

“Enjolras,” he returns, because it would be rude not to. “And this is Geneviève.”

“She has your eyes,” the woman says. “But her complexion must take after her mother.”

Denial rises in his throat –– she has her mother’s eyes, her father’s complexion –– but it sticks there. Just once he want not to spoil the moment by bringing up Marius and Cosette. They have haunted him for so long.

And yet, he was never one to lie. “Actually, I’m her uncle,” he says, a little awkward. Chetta laughs, bright and apologetic.

“I’m sorry. The family resemblance is so strong! On her mother’s side, I take it?”

He nods, and the smile feels only a little forced. “Yes, my younger sister. She always claimed it was a pity Ginette did not inherit her hair.”

“If it is anything like yours I can understand the sentiment. Still, she’s beautiful. Her father will have a hard time scaring away boyfriends.”

 _Merde_ , he hasn’t even thought that far ahead. There will be boyfriends (or maybe girlfriends?) and puberty and he has signed on to this for life and he doesn’t know what he’s doing or how to raise a child or–– _Putain_.

“Yes,” he says, fighting the urge to bury his head in the sand that Ginette is scooping into piles. He feels like the floor dropped out from under him and the full weight of the responsibility he shouldered crashes over him all over again and he’s drowning beneath the wave. “I suppose he will.”

Something must show on his face (after all, he does a fairly terrible job of keeping his emotions hidden –– it’s part of what makes him such a potent orator, he’s been told, his inability to cover up what he feels) because Musichetta frowns a little and her face softens.

“Her parents are not––” she looks back and forth between him and the girl, and her eyes light with understanding. But not pity, none at all. It’s entirely possibly he falls in love with her a little then.

“You must come by,” she decides. “Not tonight,” she laughs when he makes to protest. “No, don’t worry. But maybe next week. I’m certain Armand would like a friend, right ourson?” she asks the boy, who looks up only to nod a little and return to the serious task of building a fort composed of sand piles. “Bossuet wants to put him in primary school next year but Joly worries so much, and with a parent at the house all the time it’s difficult to get him to agree.”

These names mean nothing to him, but obviously this dinner will happen with or without his input so he lets it go.

“Here,” she says when he searches for words. She reaches into her purse and a minute later he has her phone number and address in his hand. “Do you think next Friday would work for you?”

He doesn’t refuse, so she takes it as a yes. “Don’t worry about bringing anything. I’m sure the boys will love some company and I never say no to an opportunity to cook. You will come, won’t you?”

“I don’t see how I can say no,” Enjolras replies wryly. She laughs, head thrown back. It reminds him of Cosette, but the accompanying sting and heartache feels softer, lighter than before.

(They say time heals all wounds. Maybe they were right after all.)

“That’s the spirit,” she says. Her phone buzzes and she checks it with a frown. “Bossuet is home early. I suppose that’s our cue to leave.” She stands and kneels next to her son, who has built an impressive chain of sandcastles. He pouts a little when she says it’s time to go, but gets up without much of a fuss.

“M. Enjolras and Geneviève are going to come visit us later,” she tells him. “Would you like that?”

He considers it for a moment before replying in a surprisingly solemn tone, “Yeah.” Then he leans towards his mother and whispers, “Papa says babies are yucky but I like her okay.” Enjolras shares a look of poorly-suppressed amusement with Chetta.

“Your papa thinks a lot of things are yucky, _ourson_ ,” she replies.

“Yeah,” the boy agrees. “‘Cept med’cin.”

“But that’s yucky too,” Chetta guesses.

“Yeah,” Armand nods. His mother laughs and straightens up.

“We’ll see you next week,” she tells Enjolras.

“Until then,” he replies, a little baffled but mostly just wryly amused and accepting. Armand waves shyly and together the two exit the park, child toddling along behind mother.

Enjolras and Geneviève stay a little longer, but then Ginette trips over her own castle and gets a face full of sand and starts crying, and Enjolras decides it’s time to go home.

\--

Outside the apartment they run, almost literally, into Grantaire. The man rockets down the stairs two at a time, nearly knocking all three of them down a flight.

“Jesus,” he says, careening into a wall and not the man with the baby, not really paying attention. “Watch where you’re–– oh, it’s you two.”

Ginette sees him and her entire being lights up, squealing and making grabby hands. She nearly dives out of Enjolras’ arms and he just manages to keep her from falling headfirst out of her arms.

“Hi,” Grantaire says, a little breathless. “Sorry about that.”

“No harm done,” Enjolras replies, juggling baby.

“R!” Ginette shouts. Grantaire gapes at her.

“Did you just––?”

“R,” she repeats, and a smile stretches across his face.

“R?” Enjolras asks, missing something.

“It’s, uh, a nickname,” he says, smile fading. “I’ll explain later. Sorry, it’s just, I’m late for a meeting,” his neighbor tells him.

“So you decided to kill anyone on the stairs,” Enjolras replies, letting the subject drop but making a note of it for curiosity’s sake.

“Well,” he shrugs. “I mean, I wasn’t trying to, but y’know. Tell me the world wouldn’t be better if one eleven were knocked down a flight of stairs.”

One eleven is a weasley man who hits his wife, and Enjolras would be lying if he said the advocacy of violence against the oppressors in favor of the oppressed hasn’t always appealed to him. Which does not mean he’s going to admit that in front of this new acquaintance while he’s holding his one year old niece, because that paints a bad picture.

“That seems a little extreme,” he says instead, and Grantaire’s smirk fades away.

“Oh,” he says, and Enjolras feels irrationally apologetic for shutting him down. “Yeah, maybe. Sorry. But, um, I really have to go.”

“Come by later?” Enjolras asks before he can contemplate the request. Grantaire stares at him with those unfairly blue eyes and, feeling like he’s being assessed, quickly covers the abrupt invitation by gesturing to Ginette, still trying to crawl out of his arms while repeating letters of the alphabet. “Ginette will be complaining all evening if she doesn’t get some time with her new friend. And you’re kind of a baby charmer.”

“Baby charmer,” Grantaire contemplates. “Not the worst thing I’ve been called.”

“So you’ll come by?”

“Yeah,” he replies, something tight around his eyes. “Sure.”

“Alright.” He is, he decides, the king of awkward. The French monarchy should stand in awe. He’s almost as bad as Marius. (No one is as bad as Marius. Despite being utterly brilliant the man was a complete dork.) “See you.”

“Later,” Grantaire says, already thundering down the stairs again, menacing society.

Ginette watches him go and whimpers.

“He’ll be back later,” Enjolras promises her. More quietly he admits, “I want to see him too.”

Unfortunately, Geneviève does not have that high a level of comprehension, so she keeps complaining all the way up to their flat and demands to be put down as soon as they get there. She spends the rest of the afternoon waiting by the door, and Enjolras feels a little like waiting with her.

(He has a hundred and one things to deal with in his life. His brain tells his heart he doesn’t need a crush to add to the list.

His heart doesn’t care.)

\--

Three hours later, just as the sun starts to set, a knock on the door resounds through the flat. Geneviève, half-heartedly playing with her elephant, perks up and stands. Enjolras, just starting dinner –– pasta tonight, because it’s light enough for Ginette to eat and he’s expecting (hoping for) company –– sets the water to boil and scoops her up as he opens the door. Grantaire stands on the other side, looking wearier than he did when he left. His face brightens a little when he sees Ginette, who practically glows. Enjolras barely manages to keep a hold of her.

“Come in,” he says, closing the door behind the man and setting his niece down again. She immediate attaches herself to Grantaire’s leg. “Sorry about the mess.”

“The mess” consists of Ginette’s toys, strewn haphazardly across the central living area in a complex of booby trap he trips over every time he makes her a bottle of formula in the early hours of the morning, and stacks of files and various sorts of paperwork stacked on the coffee table and the couch. He never has guests (not proper ones anyways, not guests that aren’t Combeferre or Eponine or Courfeyrac) so he hadn’t thought to clean it up. Now he wishes he had.

“It’s fine,” Grantaire replies, picking Geneviève up, much to her delight. “My place is much worse. Trust me.”

“I was just making dinner,” Enjolras says, returning to the kitchen to measure out salt and start the sauce. “Would you like some?”

“Depends,” Grantaire replies easily, not giving Enjolras time to panic silently about inviting this –– strange man? New friend? Possible babysitter? –– to dinner. “What are you making?”

“Spaghetti.” And then, because apparently the presence of this man reduces his brain-to-mouth filter to almost nothing, “I’ve been told I make an excellent tomato sauce.”

“I guess I’ll have to stay to test that,” the dark-haired man replies, clearing a spot on the living room floor and settling down. Almost immediately Ginette settles in his lap, like she’s marking her territory. _Grantaire is mine, and I won’t share._ Enjolras looks on fondly between mixing tomato paste and pouring the pasta into boiling water.

“Yes, hello,” Grantaire says when she looks up at him. “How are you today, _gamine_?”

“R,” she replies and his smile widens.

Once everything has been mixed and the timers have been set Enjolras leaves the sauce to simmer and the pasta to boil and settles on the couch next to his guest. He feels bad for not offering him a drink –– a beer or something –– but he only has tap water.

“Okay,” Enjolras says, settling down next to the file he’s been reading through. “So what’s with the nickname.”

“Something from college. Bahorel coined it but now I just use it to sign paintings, mostly.”

Enjolras nods before he recognizes the name. “Bahorel?”

“An old friend of mine. We still go out for drinks and boxing sometimes,” Grantaire shrugs. “I can’t remember what he does now.”

“He’s a lawyer,” Enjolras replies, refusing to believe this because coincidences don’t happen in real life. Not coincidences like these.

“You know him?” R asks.

“I work with him,” Enjolras replies. “He’s a member of my firm.”

Grantaire stares for a moment and then laughs.

“No way,” he says, shaking his head. “No fucking way. You’re the scary blond boss.”

Is that what Bahorel calls him behind his back? He’s not sure if he’s amused or insulted. “Seriously?”

“Oh my God I can totally see it. That is so great.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“He’s never gonna stop giving me shit for this.”

While Grantaire laughs at the whole thing Enjolras buries his head in his hands.

“But you just moved in, right?” Grantaire demands. “I know you just moved in, I saw you and your friends wrestling the crap couch upstairs. I refuse to believe I’ve been living in the same building as his boss without either of us knowing it.”

“First, I’m not his boss,” Enjolras corrects, dropping his hands. “We all have equal shares of the firm.”

“Yeah, but you’re the one in charge, right?” Grantaire pushes. “That’s how he explained it to me. Those guy’ll follow you anywhere, he says. Course, he was pretty wasted but I think he meant it.”

Hearing those words from a stranger warms his heart.

(He should stop keeping them out, but habits are hard to break and he does his best to always be the man they would follow anywhere, not the man who needs a hand up.)

“Good to know,” he says, unwilling to go down that path right now. “And two months, since you asked.”

“I was right.”

“What about you?”

“About a year,” Grantaire replies easily. “It’s a nice community, mostly. I like it.”

“R,” Ginette complains. Grantaire returns his attention to her and the block tower she’s building.

“Yes, it’s very nice. Isn’t it a nice building, Enjolras?”

“It’s lovely,” Enjolras replies. “Well designed, _petite_.”

Ginette smiles at him and his heart melts (like, he imagines, it always will). Then she turns around and knocks the entire thing down, clapping.

“She’s beautiful,” Grantaire says.

“I wish her parents could see,” he replies without thinking.

(Abort, abort. This is a terrible conversation topic.)

“I’m sure they’re, y’know. Somewhere. If you believe in that sort of thing.”

“I don’t.”

“Well then.”

The conversation putters out.

“So what do you do?” Enjolras asks, curious. Apparently this is the right question to ask because Grantaire’s face lights up.

“I paint,” he says. “Commissioned stuff, mostly. I was late for a meeting with a client when I almost killed you two. And I do dance lessons sometimes, to pick up a little extra cash. It’s not the best paying but I make do, and I enjoy it. Not that you’d know anything about that, Mr. Lawyer.”

Sarcasm lies thick on the words, and Enjolras bristles. “No, I understand,” he says sharply. Grantaire cranes his neck around to stare up at him, one eyebrow raised.

“Seriously? Like, what, you had a bad childhood or something?”

“Not exactly,” he replies, because his childhood (despite the loss) was a good one. Grantaire stares at him expectantly, paying no attention to Ginette’s attempts to focus his attention back on her block towers so he sighs and says, “The firm is having troubles.”

“Dude, you’re a lawyer. I thought lawyers made like, shitloads of money.”

“R,” Ginette complains.

“Sorry, kid,” he mutters, stacking blocks by color and waiting for Enjolras’ response.

“Normally, yes,” he frowns. “But we do pro-bono work most of the time, so most our clients don’t pay full fees. Everyone’s taking on as much as they can but we need an extra hand to replace Marius –– my brother-in-law––”

“Ginette’s father? The one who died?”

“Yes. We’re short-staffed so we can’t pick up any more work but we need the money more work would bring.”

“Shit, dude. Sorry I brought it up.”

“It’s fine,” Enjolras waves him off. “I’ll figure something out.”

Grantaire stares for a moment and then shakes his head. “I see why you’re the boss.”

“It’s not some sort of dictatorship,” Enjolras grumbles.

“Yeah but it could be a pretty good one.”

“Dictatorships never work,” Enjolras dismisses. “The people wouldn’t stand for it.

“Maybe.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, doesn’t Hobbes say that without some sort of common power man exists in a state of war?”

“Hobbes was wrong. History proves that sooner or later the people will rise. Besides, you’re assuming man is naturally warmongering. But we aren’t; we are inherently rational and seek communal protection. Which is why we enter into a social contract of equality, where rights are universal.”

Grantaire snorts. “To the uneducated, violence is always the easy answer.” As if proving his point, Ginette throws a block at him.

“It’s not nice to throw, Geneviève” Enjolras tells the girl before returning to Grantaire’s argument, always happy to discuss the philosophy of government. “Which is why we must educate the public,” he agrees.

“Ah,” Grantaire says. “But then you’ve got indoctrination.”

Enjolras frowns. “Providing the information is not the same as telling people how to think.”

“Isn’t it? If you teach a group one way to think then they will always think like that. Look at the native peoples around the world forced to westernize.”

“But then you move from politics to education,” Enjolras points out, irritated by his neighbor’s pessimistic attitude and buoyed by his wide grasp of philosophy. It feels like ages since someone put together a solid argument for the amusement of it.

(Once upon a time they held mock debates at the office, inviting friends and going head to head. Enjolras’ favorite debates are the ones where he lost. Afterwards his argument was always stronger.)

This is much better than the internet, where name-calling and jokes about sexuality spring up more often than well thought out rebuttals. “It’s like Freire postulates –– a problem-posing education system encourages growth and free thinking, which in turn encourages growth of the public and leads us towards a republic of equality.”

“You are far too idealistic,” Grantaire tells him. “Humanity likes its oppression and inequality.”

“People have been fighting against oppression for centuries,” Enjolras counters. “Without action nothing changes, and there’s so much to be fixed within the system we have. That’s why we founded _Les Amis_ , to help those who can’t find a voice in this government, or don’t have the resources to fight for themselves yet.”

“Too bad you make no money fighting the good fight,” Grantaire tells him with a smirk, and Enjolras shoves him with a knee.

“Too bad you’re a pessimistic lout who knows his philosophy. Seriously, what do you do with your life?”

“Uh, nothing?” Grantaire says.

Enjolras doesn’t believe that for a minute. “What, just read a lot?”

“Yeah, I guess. I mean, that stuff’s pretty interesting. A guy’s gotta have a hobby. Mine’s just sort of pointing how how dead-wrong all those fancy dead men who never met the people they were writing about were.”

“They were some of the most influential minds of the western world. Maybe the entire world. Not only are their works the basis of the modern republic, but they’re also the counterpoint to modern communism. Without them we’d be centuries behind in terms of politics and social philosophy.”

“Or maybe we’d be better of,” Grantaire counters. Enjolras has a biting response on the tip of his tongue but the timer in the kitchen starts beeping so he has to lever himself up off the couch to check the sauce (bubbling and ready to be consumed) and the pasta (a little on the soft side –– they spent too much time talking when he should have been keeping an eye on it –– but Ginette will appreciate it if nothing else). He scrounges up three mismatched plates and divvys up the food, setting it on the tiny wooden table in the corner of the kitchen, next to the window. Their silverware sits in a large cup (vase? container? it’s porcelain and hand-painted by Eponine as a housewarming gift and Enjolras isn’t certain what exactly it’s supposed to be but it makes a nice centerpiece) so he sets the table and moves Ginette’s high chair.

“Dinner,” he calls over his shoulder, and Grantaire appears like magic just behind his shoulder with Ginette in tow.

“It smells great,” he says, handing over the girl. Enjolras straps her in her chair while Grantaire provides entertainment. Once Ginette settles in with her chopped-up pasta and sippy cup filled with water he sits himself. The table barely fits the three of them, but instead of feeling crowded it’s surprisingly cosy. “Tastes good too.”

“Good,” Enjolras replies dryly, twirling a forkful of noodles himself. “I was worried.”

“Sure you were,” Grantaire smirks. “Anyways. You argue pretty decently too.”

“I hope so,” Enjolras snorts. “I am a lawyer.”

“And a very good one I’m sure.”

“I don’t work as much anymore,” he admits. “Attorneys don’t exactly keep good hours for raising children. I mean, I put in just as much work as everyone else but it’s harder to be in court because I can’t keep a babysitter.”

“You scare them away don’t you?” Grantaire asks, and his silence is answer enough.

“I don’t know why,” Enjolras protests when Grantaire snorts into his food.

“Of course you don’t,” he thinks he hears Grantaire mutter, but their conversation devolves into dinner, comfortably quiet except for Ginette’s baby talk and the occasional noodle that ends up on Enjolras and not in her mouth.

“She really has it out for you,” Grantaire says after he pulls a third strand of spaghetti out of his hair.

“We’re getting there. She’s just a little unhappy with me,” Enjolras replies with faux nonchalance, hoping to let the subject drop, but instead Grantaire grabs onto it.

“Really? Why? She seems like a pretty decent kid.”

Enjolras contemplates not answering –– he is, after all, very good at talking around the question –– but in the end he can’t see a reason why he shouldn’t. Especially since Ginette is quickly growing attached to the man.

(And, Enjolras refuses to admit to himself as he watches Grantaire across his cheap, coffee stained wooden table, he is too.)

“I think she blames me,” he says after the silence stretches long enough to become uncomfortable. “I keep hoping she’ll forget, she’ll move on, but she hasn’t yet.” He puts his fork down, no longer hungry. “I do my best but it’s hard.”

“Fuck, man,” Grantaire says, setting down his own utensil. Enjolras smiles a little, cracked and peeling like old paint.

“We’ll muddle through,” he says, just like he tells himself every day when Ginette refuses to eat breakfast or when she cries herself to sleep again. “She’s been getting better.” (Sometimes she doesn’t cry at bedtime, and now that there are words between them she hits less and communicates more.) “Time heals all wounds, and all that.”

“That’s bullshit,” Grantaire says bluntly, and something in his voice says, _trust me. I know_. Enjolras laughs a little, hollow.

“What else can I do?” he asks, blue eyes meeting blue, and he realizes he’s looking for an answer. He wants Grantaire to have an answer.

But Grantaire doesn’t. He looks away first, eyes falling back down to his dinner. “I don’t know, man,” he says quietly.

Enjolras swallows down all the bitter replies that rise up in his throat. “I think she likes you,” he offers.

“You’re practically her dad now,” Grantaire mutters towards his plate. “She should like you too.”

“We’ll get there,” Enjolras says, almost believing it. (He has always been one for hope, but he gives hope to others. He keeps no hope for himself.) “I’ll be here for her no matter what.”

An uncomfortable silence descends, lacking the comfort of the earlier quiet.

“I think I should go,” Grantaire says. His plate is still half full.

“Okay,” Enjolras agrees, even though the last thing he wants is to be alone. “Thanks for stopping by.”

“Sure,” Grantaire replies, and they both stand. Enjolras sees him out, because it’s the polite thing to do, and for a brief moment they stand awkwardly by the door. It feels almost like a bad first date.

Maybe it is a bad first date.

“Thanks for the food,” Grantaire says finally. “And the company.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras replies, eloquent as ever, telling himself not to be disappointed. “You too.”

“She’ll come around,” the cynic tells him out of the blue, surprising the blond. “Kids are resilient. And you’re a pretty cool guy, naïve ideology aside.”

“Naïve ideology,” he echoes. “Thanks.”

“I meant what I said about babysitting,” Grantaire adds, ignoring the sarcasm. “I mean, I work some pretty weird hours so call ahead but besides that I’m here to help.”

“I don’t have your phone number,” Enjolras says, a little dumbly.

“Oh, right,” R replies. “Give me your arm.” Bemused, Enjolras complies. Grantaire produces a sharpie from somewhere and pens his number on the inside of his forearm. The marker tip tickles.

“There you go,” he says, capping it. “You ever need a hand––”

“I’ll keep you in mind,” Enjolras finishes for him.

Grantaire gives him a two-fingered salute across the threshold and leaves, heading back upstairs. Enjolras closes the door and allows himself a moment to lean against it, wood cool against his forehead. He can hear Ginette talking to herself in the kitchen, but for now his thoughts linger on the attractive, intelligent, scruffy man he just had over for dinner.

Does it count as a date? His dating history is sort of terrible, and without someone like Combeferre to help him through it he probably would have given up long ago. But some part of him wants this to have been a date. They talked politics. He made dinner. It sounds like a date to him.

But there was also the infant, and the heap of personal issues that scared the man away.

(Except then there was advice. And phone numbers.)

Enjolras groans and resists the urge to bang his head against the door. As if becoming a single parent to an infant who resents him isn’t enough.

(If he’s honest he thought having the man over would help mitigate his crush. He didn’t expect shared friends and political philosophy and phone numbers. He didn’t expect to want the man to come back again.)

“ _Putain_ ,” he mutters. He hates everything.


	5. Chapter 5

He texts Grantaire on Sunday –– a quick _thank you_ and _can you watch Ginette on Friday?_ –– and Monday morning he wakes up with four unread messages.

 _Yeah sure_ , says the first one. Then, _sorry totally didn’t check my phone earlier_ and _you’re actually a really good cook thanks for dinner_ and _you doing anything next weekend?_

He goes into work with a smile on his face for the first time in ages. Courfeyrac notices it, standing over the coffee machine as if staring at it will make it work any faster.

“What’s got you in such a good mood?” the man asks, giving up on coffee for the far more interesting subject that is Enjolras. “I haven’t seen you smile since Marius.” He only hesitates a little before the name.

“I met a guy,” Enjolras waves him off, setting Ginette up in her customary corner of his cubicle but Courf’s eyes light up and he sits on Enjolras’ desk, dumping files on the floor that he’ll have to go and re-organize later.

(For once he doesn’t care. Much. He’s surprise to realize he misses his friends.)

“Who?” Courfeyrac demands. “Details, right now.”

“Courfeyrac I’ve got work to do. I’m meeting with a client on Friday––”

“And you’re on top of that case. I know because Jehan’s been working for Bahorel for the past week and Feuilly comes to you with budgeting issues. So spill.”

Enjolras sighs and knows nothing will save him now except maybe the beeping of the coffee maker so he folds his arms and says, “He lives upstairs and apparently knows Bahorel.”

“Who knows me?” Bahorel asks, walking in the door with Feuilly in tow because they ride the same train in to work.

“This guy Enjolras met.”

“Enjolras met a guy?”

“I hate you,” Enjolras murmurs to Courfeyrac.

“No you don’t,” Courfeyrac waves off with a shit-eating grin. “Well?” he prompts when Enjolras glares, unfazed. “Aren’t you going to explain.”

“His name’s Grantaire. He boxes with Bahorel and debates philosophy. We had dinner.”

“It’s true love,” Jehan declares (and Enjolras wonders when he showed up and why everyone always gangs up on him).

“R? You met R?” Bahorel asks, and Enjolras turns to scowl at his friend and co-worker.

“Do you really call me the scary blond boss?”

“Oh my God you did meet R,” Bahorel gapes. “Oh, no way. You’re the––” He cuts himself off with a sharp laugh. “Oh man, no way. You’re the one he’s been–– Holy shit.”

Obviously Enjolras is missing something. He’s not sure he wants to know. “Amusing as my personal life is,” he says (and he does not sound petulant, he doesn’t), “why don’t we all return to the jobs we get paid to do and stop talking about me.”

They all grumble (and Courfeyrac snickers, “scary blond boss”) but return to their desks and Enjolras can pull out his laptop and do the job he (more or less) gets paid for. For once the office doesn’t feel awkwardly empty, and it isn’t a struggle to pretend that they’re all healing, especially not with Ginette laughing to herself and weaving around their ankles.

At home things get better too. Ginette only dumps her dinner all over the floor twice that week, a vast improvement. She even laughs at him when he runs into her doorframe when she wakes him up at one on Wednesday morning, which really isn’t saying much because finding pain funny could be the first signs of sadism, but her laughter still makes him happy. He thinks it’s like being whipped, except instead of a hot boyfriend he has a perpetually unimpressed fifteen month old child.

(He’s suddenly thankful that she’s a year old and eats solids, because he doesn’t think he could survive things like burping and constant need for formula. Diapers are difficult enough.)

He doesn’t see Grantaire until Friday, when the man rings his doorbell a little after seven in the morning with a duffle bag over one shoulder and a mug of coffee in the other, unshaven with bags under his eyes. Enjolras answers the door with his tie around his neck and Ginette fisting her hands in his shirt, wrinkling it before he’s even out the door. He tries to work her fingers out of the cloth but she’s clingy today, a change from normal.

“Oh,” he says when he sees Grantaire. “I was going to drop her off with you.”

“Her stuff is down here,” R shrugs. “I figured it’d be easier to come to you.”

Enjolras only hesitates for a moment before letting him in. He drops his bag on the sofa and follows Enjolras back to the kitchen where he’s making breakfast. Today is toast and cereal.

(Every day is toast and cereal, actually.)

“Help yourself to anything,” Enjolras says as he moves around the cramped space. He tries setting Ginette down but the girl clings on to him desperately so he holds on to her as he feeds her. “Bathroom’s down the hall, she eats around noon and if you can get her to take a nap that would be fantastic but it’s a long shot. Phone numbers on the fridge. If you can’t get a hold of me, Combeferre’s the person to try.”

“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Grantaire says. “Especially after I finish this coffee.”

“Just, uh, make yourself at home I guess. And thank you for this.”

“Sure.”

The clock on the wall ticks towards half past seven and Enjolras has to leave now or he’ll be late. Ginette doesn’t want him to go.

“Shh, _petite_ ,” he sooths her when she starts whimpering. “I’m just going to work. You’ve stayed with babysitters before, and this is R.”

“No,” the girl pouts. (Enjolras regrets her ever learning the word.)

“Ginette, I have to go to work. But Grantaire is here. See R?”

“R?” she asks tentatively.

“Yeah, see? Go on, play with R today.”

She whimpers a little more but lets him hand her off to Grantaire, who holds her carefully. Enjolras rubs a hand down his face and grabs his bag and stuffs his toast in his mouth and heads for the door.

“Thank you,” he says around his breakfast. Grantaire looks up at him and his face twists up in a wry smile.

“Your tie,” he points out, and Enjolras realizes it’s still hanging around his neck like a scarf.

“Right,” he mumbles. “Thanks. Bye!”

The door swings shut behind him and he squashes a momentary spike of anxiety. They’ll be fine.

\--

They are fine.

Actually, they’re adorable. The meeting finishes earlier than he planned (and turns out better than he planned as well) and when he arrives back home both Grantaire and Ginette are asleep on the couch, Ginette laid out on Grantaire’s chest and Grantaire flat on his back, one arm wrapped carefully around the girl. He sets his bag down and takes a photo, because Marius would and because he wants to keep this moment forever.

Unfortunately, he has dinner at Musichetta’s so he has to wake them up.

“Huh?” Grantaire says when he touches his shoulder. “Wh–– oh, hi.” He sits up, trying not to wake the girl in his lap. “I thought you were coming home later.”

“We finished early,” he says. Grantaire’s hair sticks up in messy curls and the urge to smooth it back into place briefly seizes him. “And I’ve got a dinner thing this evening so I thought––”

“Did you get a haircut,” Grantaire interrupts him. Enjolras reaches up and runs his fingers through his (much shorter) hair.

“When it’s long enough to put up it’s too long,” he shrugs. “And we finished early so I had time.”

“I like it long,” Grantaire practically pouts. Enjolras doesn’t know how he’s supposed to respond to that so he shrugs and fishes for his wallet. Grantaire frowns when he pulls it out.

“You don’t need to––”

“You babysat, I’m paying,” Enjolras cuts him off. “Don’t argue, you won’t win.”

“I can be very stubborn.”

“So can I.” When the man places Ginette down on the couch and crosses his arms he sighs. “Services are regularly exchanged for goods. You’ve done me a service, let me pay you for it. It’s the basis of economics everywhere.”

“I thought that was supply and demand.”

“Oh for the love of–– look, don’t be an ass. Please.”

Grantaire’s frown doesn’t abate but he uncrosses his arms. “I don’t want you paying me to spend time with her.”

“And I’m not going to let you babysit without paying you for it. If it makes you feel better I can’t afford to pay you what I normally would.”

“That’s a terrible way to compromise,” Grantaire argues.

“A good compromise leaves everyone unhappy,” Enjolras returns.

“That’s true,” Grantaire agrees after a moment. “Alright, I’ll take your money. But I’m not pleased about it.”

“Noted,” Enjolras tells him.

Grantaire snorts and stands, gathering his bag and his mug and clapping Enjolras on the shoulder. “Since you’re home I’m off. See you later.”

“Thank you.”

“Any time,” the man returns. “She was an angel.”

The door swings shut behind her and Enjolras pinches the bridge of his nose.

(He’s a stubborn, sarcastic, and smart. Enjolras has no chance.)

\--

Dinner with Musichetta and her boys turns out to be exactly what it sounds like. She lives with Joly, a hypochondriac doctor, and Lesgles, better known as Bossuet. None of them are married, “because it’s like, reverse Mormonism, and that’s illegal anyways,” Bossuet explains to him over dinner, a curry that, according to Chetta, has been handed down through her family through generations (and is incredibly delicious). Still, it’s obvious that Armand is Bossuet’s son –– he has Bossuet’s deep brown skin tone.

“Marriage is overrated anyways,” Joly says. “Except for health benefits and visiting rights,” he adds after a moment of thought, “but we make do.” And like Bossuet says, he’s a doctor, so it’s not like hospital visits are a problem.

“What do you do?” he asks Bossuet over wine afterwards, while Armand and Ginette play with toy cars under the table. Joly introduced himself as a doctor and Chetta works alternate days at a primary school but Bossuet hasn’t mentioned his job.

“I’m the stay at home dad,” he laughs. “Once upon a time I practiced law. Maybe if I found work Joly would agree to enroll Armand in school.”

“There’s just no point,” Joly argues. “Not if you’re home to keep care of him.”

“We know,” Musichetta sooths. “But it wouldn’t hurt to have someone else working.”

“I know,” Joly grumbles. “But with all the times you’ve looked––” He trails off and Bossuet presses a kiss against his cheek.

Enjolras nods and sips his wine and forces himself to remain calm and collected. “So you haven’t had any luck?”

Bossuet laughs. “I have the worst luck, my friend. No one wants a lawyer who hasn’t practiced in three years.”

“Actually,” Enjolras says, and he explains what _Les Amis_ do, and why he needs another man on the team. When he finishes Bossuet shakes his head in disbelief.

“I’d say it’s a reversal of fortune,” he jokes sadly, “but the loss of a friend is never fortunate.”

“Will you at least think about it?” Enjolras asks.

“Of course,” Bossuet replies. “Give me a week?”

“Gladly,” he says, already searching for a business card. He finds one in his pocket, slightly crumpled but legible. It reads _Les Amis de l’ABC_ across the top in simple, bold typeface, with an address and phone number beneath. “There’s almost always someone in. If I’m not there just explain to them what’s going on and they’ll give you whatever information you need.”

“Thank you, my friend.”

Near their feet Ginette starts to fuss. Enjolras checks his watch –– it’s far past her bedtime.

“We should go,” he says apologetically. Musichetta smiles and kisses both cheeks.

“Thank you for coming. And thank you for your help.”

On the doorstep, Ginette bundled up with him, he turns back to her.

“Just one question. How does this work?” he asks, waving a hand at their house and Joly and Bossuet talking side by side in the dining room, Armand sitting in Joly’s lap.

“Joly is Papa and Bossuet is Da,” she says. “People tell us children should have one of each parent but I don’t see how more love and care can go awry.”

“No,” Enjolras agrees, thinking of himself and (ridiculously, he’s utterly ridiculous) Grantaire. “I don’t either.”

“It was nice meeting you,” Joly calls across the house. “Come by again sometime.”

“Thank you for dinner,” he returns politely. In his arms Ginette falls asleep. The door closes behind him. Full of well-made, warm food and riding a buzz of good wine and better company he settles on the metro and lets the train lull him into a doze.

The only thing that could make this better, he thinks as he and Ginette ascend from the underground at their stop, would be having someone to share it with.

\--

An insistent thumping wakes him early the next morning. When he rolls over to check his clock the red numbers read out 6:03 which, to be fair, could be worse. Ginette wakes him far earlier far more often. But on days like today, when she decides to sleep in, the last thing he wants to hear are noisy neighbors.

Then he realizes the pounding comes from his own front door, and he half-falls out of bed and stumbles to the door, yanking it open to tell the knocker to leave immediately and return after the sun rises.

Grantaire stands on the other side of the door, hand still raised to rap again. Enjolras realises suddenly that he has on a pair of sweats and no shirt. A red flush creeps across Grantaire’s face (which he finds surprisingly adorable) and the man stares resolutely at a point just above his shoulder.

“Oh,” he says. “Uh, sorry.” His clothes, wrinkled and stained with –– is that paint? it must be paint –– smell like smoke and wine. Dark circles shadow blue eyes, which flick away from the point behind his shoulder to glance down his frame before they jump back to the point behind his shoulder. Enjolras fights the urge to cross his arms in front of his body and instead gives Grantaire his best ‘did you need something?’ stare, eyebrows raised and slight frown tugging at his lips.

“I, uh––” Grantaire wets his lips a little and starts again, voice stronger. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Enjolras returns carefully. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. Um, remember when I asked if you were free this weekend? There’s something I wanted to–– I thought you might want to see. This morning. Which looking at it now was obviously a bad idea, sorry, don’t know why I brought it up I’ll let you go back to bed.”

He turns to go, and even though bed sounds fantastic right now Enjolras calls out to him. “Wait.”

Grantaire freezes.

“Let me put some clothes on,” he says. Grantaire turns around, apprehension and the faintest tinge of something else written across his face. “And maybe make some coffee. Come inside.”

“Okay,” Grantaire says, stepping hesitantly across the threshold. Enjolras closes the door behind him, retreating to his bedroom to find jeans and a shirt. He feels Grantaire’s eyes on him as he walks away.

He changes quickly, taking time to brush teeth and wash his face as well before reemerging, feeling far more whole and awake and less like a zombie.

“So what do you want to show me?” he asks Grantaire. The man sits at the counter, tapping out a steady rhythm on the countertop, and checks his phone every few seconds. He jumps a little when Enjolras breaks the silence.

“It’s actually a bit of a walk,” Grantaire replies hesitantly. “And a metro ride. And, uh, I guess you can’t leave Ginette here alone––”

Enjolras frowns a little and crosses his arms. This sounds like trouble and planning and while he wholly supports planning (and mornings with Grantaire) he doesn’t know how he feels about waking up Ginette to do God knows what.

But curiosity grabs hold so he shrugs and says, “I can wake her up if you want.” Grantaire looks torn at the prospect so Enjolras takes matters into his own hands. He hears R moving around behind him in the living room when he opens his niece’s door.

Ginette sleeps on her stomach, bottom stuck up in the air and thumb securely in her mouth. She’s adorable. Enjolras feels a smile creep across his face.

“Ginette?” he calls softly, and the girl stirs a little. He’s a little sorry he has to wake her. “ _Bon matin, petite_. R is here. Would you like to come out and see him?”

Footsteps echo in the hall behind him and a shadow appears in the doorway. “ _Reveille-toi_ ,” he coaxes, picking her up. She weighs a ton, eyes blinking open slowly. She is kindest at times like these, half awake and happy to see him. Grantaire hovers in the doorway but Enjolras ignores him for now in favor of changing Ginette’s diaper and dressing her. She cooperates with lazy limbs. Minutes later they are both dressed, and Enjolras turns expectantly towards his guest, still standing like a shadow against the light of the hallway.

“We’re ready,” he says. Grantaire checks his phone again and mumbles to himself a little and says, “Great.”

They walk down to the metro stop in the dark, the approaching winter pushing sunrise later and later. The underground station is nearly empty. Even the vendors who populate the sidewalks have just started to open, lacking the usual early-morning customers without the bustle of the work week. The trio walk down quiet Parisian streets, the pre-dawn light the same color as stone.

“So where are we going?” Enjolras asks as they descend into the metro station. Ginette perks up at riding the trains.

“It’s a surprise,” Grantaire tells him, hopping on a northbound train. “But it’ll be worth it.”

Enjolras hears him add, “I hope,” in an undertone afterwards and instead of irritating him it fans the flames of his curiosity. A handful of people step on and off their car as they pass through the city but Grantaire stays resolutely in his seat and Enjolras remains in his. R, hair tucked away in a red beanie and old leather jacket loose around his shoulders, checks his phone and then leans his head against the car window and closes his eyes. Enjolras, warm in his own jacket, thinks longingly of sleep. In his lap Ginette, finally awake, babbles at him, eyes bright and smiling. He keeps her entertained by standing her up in his lap and letting her bounce and sway along with the train.

(Maybe he’ll get her a train set for Christmas, he considers, since she loves them so much.)

Finally, nearly twenty minutes later, Grantaire sits up. Ginette, as if noticing him for the first time, grins and babbles. The man smiles back at her and checks his phone again.

“I think we’ll make it,” he says, more to himself than Enjolras. Enjolras follows him off the train with good-natured exasperation. They arrive at Abbesses, and Grantaire leads them expertly through the extended maze of underground tunnels to the surface. From there they take a winding path of alleys and neighborhood streets eastwards, Grantaire ducking around corners and checking his phone now and again, gesturing for them to hurry up. Finally they stop, Enjolras a step behind and shifting Ginette higher up on his hip, wishing for once that he had a stroller.

“Grantaire, where are we––”

“Shh,” the man cuts him off. “Close your eyes.”

Enjolras gives him a look. “I’m not carrying Ginette around with my eyes––”

Grantaire plucks the girl out of his arms, much to her delight, and looks at him expectantly. Enjolras sighs, but does as Grantaire asks. A hand finds his own, palm slightly sweaty but fingers strong and sure.

“Do you trust me?” Grantaire asks.

“Yes,” Enjolras replies, mouth dry.

“Okay,” Grantaire says. “About, um, thirty steps forward. I’ll make sure you don’t run into anything.”

Enjolras tentatively steps off the curb and moves forward along the cobblestone street. At thirty-one steps exactly Grantaire says, softly, “Stop.”

Enjolras stops.

“Okay,” Grantaire says, rotating him slightly in place. “You can open your eyes now.”

Enjolras does, and the sight steals his breath away.

Paris lies below them, a sprawling expanse of stone and iron, pale and dark. He can make out Les Invalides and the distinct architecture of Beaubourg and if he squints he can point out the towers of Notre Dame in the morning haze.

And above it all rises the sun, bright and heavy on the horizon, turning the city from grey to orange to gold. The dome of Les Invalides glints like fire. The light, fresh and gold, coaxes the city to life, day spreading across the capital. Hundreds of years of history contained in forty miles of land, all waking slowly with the sun.

Enjolras doesn’t know what to say so he doesn’t say anything. He stands shoulder to shoulder with Grantaire at the top of the steps, at the base of the basilica, and watches the sun rise.

“Thank you,” he murmurs after a long moment of silence, even though those words can’t contain everything he means, everything he feels. When he closes his eyes he can see it against his eyelids, the city awash in color and the sky like fire above it.

(This fire doesn’t destroy, doesn’t burn. This fire brings life. This is the sort of fire he wants to remember.)

“I thought you might appreciate it, Apollo,” Grantaire replies easily. Ginette dozes again against his chest. Enjolras’ heart aches a little with something he can’t (won’t, is afraid to) name.

“Coffee?” Enjolras asks when the sun has grown small and yellow, because he functions poorly without it and he doesn’t want the morning to end quite yet. “I think I saw a cafe a few blocks back.”

“Sounds good to me,” Grantaire agrees. “I could definitely use some caffeine.”

The cafe Enjolras saw turns out to be closed, so they wander a few blocks further to a tiny place on a dead-end street with a terrace in the back that looks over the hill district. A friendly barista makes their drinks –– a double shot latte for Enjolras, who rarely has the opportunity to treat himself to his favorite caffeinated beverage, and a straight-up black coffee for Grantaire who likes his “as dark and bitter as my soul,” and a little water and a croissant for Ginette, who missed breakfast and will start protesting that soon –– and then lets them be. They sit out on the terrace and watch the sun climb in the sky.

“Thank you,” Enjolras says again after he finishes half his drink. The design in the foam –– something resembling a maple leaf –– melts into a monochrome brown.

“I used to come up here sometimes,” Grantaire says. “Or, well, I’d stay out all night and be awake to see the sun rise. And it seems like you don’t get out a lot so I thought you might like to see a little of the city.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras agrees because he doesn’t know what else to say. That doesn’t seem to bother Grantaire.

“Plus, well, I thought you’d like the light.”

“I do.”

The terrace begins filling up not long after so they finish their drinks and leave. Tourists hoping to beat the crowd wander down the street in bright, overpriced t-shirts. Enjolras holds Ginette tight and wades through the growing crowd, Grantaire bobbing along at his side. The metro has awakened, vendors selling newspapers and magazines and candy bars. The train back south is a little more packed, and Enjolras has to keep a tight hold of Ginette so she doesn’t go weaving between people’s legs. Grantaire sits next to him and plays peekaboo.

“I just wanted to say,” a woman tells them in passing when they reach their stop, “you two are so sweet with her.”

Enjolras blushes and practically runs off with Ginette. Grantaire lingers a moment longer to reply to the woman –– and Enjolras does _not_ desperately want to know what he says –– and saunters up to him.

“You’ve gone red as your jacket, Apollo,” the man says, insufferably smug.

“I have not,” he returns, petulant like a schoolboy. He turns and walks off before he can further embarrass himself. For a moment he thinks Grantaire is going to abandon him but he reappears at his shoulder moments later. Enjolras stays stubbornly silent until they arrive at the apartment. Grantaire stays smirking at his side.

“Thanks again for this morning,” Enjolras says when they reach his floor.

“Thanks for coffee,” Grantaire returns, leaning easily against the wall of the stairwell. It would be so easy to lean across the step and close the gap.

(Except for the child between them. And his own uncertainty. And the myriad other problems he needs to solve first.)

Enjolras restrains himself.

“I’ll see you around sometime,” he says instead.

“You bet your ass,” his neighbor grins. Enjolras doesn’t know what put him in such a good mood, but he likes it. “Later,” he says climbing up the next flight of stairs. Enjolras unlocks his door and sets Ginette down, then pulls his phone out.

He pulls up Eponine’s name before he can talk himself out of it and sends off a quick message.

_I need your opinion._

_There’s this guy._

_It’s stupid._

_I shouldn’t have brought it up._

_Oh God please don’t tell Combeferre._

Okay, maybe he sends more than one quick message. He stares at his phone, but no response comes so he shoves it back in his pocket and slips his jacket off and settles on the floor with Ginette, trying to teach the girl colors.

His phone buzzes in quick succession about half an hour later. He unlocks it warily.

_omg no way_

_what’s he like? can i meet him?_

_2 late i already told Ferre._

_he says finally_

Enjolras buries his head in his hands and curses himself. Ginette looks up from her matching game (she’s eating the blocks more than matching them but it’s the thought that counts) and frowns at him.

“I’m okay,” he tells her, carefully righting the triangle shoved in the square hole. “Just embarrassed.”

“R?” she asks, and he doesn’t think she means _because you’ve got a major crush on Grantaire_ but really who knows with kids. (Mouth of babes and all that.)

“Yeah, because of R. Sort of. And because I’m an idiot.”

“Okay,” she tells him with a bit of a pat to his arm. She offers him the bright red cylinder smeared with spit and Enjolras takes it with a smile. Sharing is good. He encourages sharing.

“Okay,” he echoes. “We’ll get through this, right _petite_?”

She smiles at him a little and pulls herself up on the couch. She’s so big. When did she get so big? Is this what parenthood is, wondering when your child learned this, when they got old enough to do that?

“I love you, _petite_ ,” he tells her solemnly. “Don’t forget that when you grow up, okay?”

“Blue,” she tells him sagely.


	6. Chapter 6

The weekend –– and the weeks following it –– fall back into their pattern, days filled with work followed by lazy evenings on the living room floor with Ginette and case files. Eponine and Combeferre spring a visit on him Sunday evening, complete with shitty takeout and a TV marathon that reminds Enjolras of weekends spent hiding in dorm rooms. Enjolras remembers introducing them to each other.

(Who knew one day they’d end up living together and ganging up on him? Enjolras certainly hadn’t. He shouldn’t be surprised.)

Eponine wrings the whole story out of him and while he sits on the couch with his hands over his face Combeferre pats his knee and tells him to go for it because “obviously the guy cares so why not try?”

(Because he doesn’t want to hurt Geneviève if it all goes wrong. Because he’s afraid.)

“You’re a young, very attractive guy,” Eponine tells him when they leave well past midnight Monday morning, Combeferre waiting at the bottom of the stairs. “He’d be crazy to say no.”

“Or straight,” Enjolras points out unhappily.

“Sweetheart, he took you to breakfast in Montmartre. He definitely likes what he sees.” She gives him a quick kiss on the cheek. “You’re alway telling everyone else to try it and do what makes them happy. Now I’m telling you –– do what makes _you_ happy.”

Enjolras marvels at her. “Where did you get so smart.”

“It’s a girl thing,” she shrugs. “Ferre needs my advice too sometimes. Don’t worry. Even the smart guys can be dumb.”

He waves them away and texts Grantaire before he can fully consider it, inviting him to dinner sometime. He receives a response immediately. Tuesday evening. And then, as if that single message opened the floodgates, the messages keep coming at all hours of the day and night, pointless and interesting and everything in between. Grantaire, he learns, is both talkative and liable to stick his foot in his own mouth. And is very fond of Greek allusions.

(Enjolras brushes up on his myths. He takes to reading them aloud to Ginette, like bedtime stories –– and wonders briefly if Greek stories are appropriate to be read aloud to children. But he’s already guilty of reading philosophy texts and case files aloud when she needs a voice to sooth her and he has nothing else to sing, and really she’s too young to remember this or be scarred permanently. He hopes.)

Then Bossuet calls Thursday at midday and tells them he’ll take the job, and money gets tighter but they also get more done and that pleases Enjolras to no end, knowing they’re able to help more people.

(And yes, make enough profit to stop paying rent out of pocket, which delights Feuilly. Slowly they’re getting their feet back under them. As always, they’ll manage for a little while longer.)

At some point in these weeks Ginette must decide she forgives him, because the angry, crying, unhappy child slowly retreats and the cheerful, resilient girl blooms again. It is by no means perfect –– she still cries through the night now and again; sometimes she wants anyone and everyone except him. But more and more often she smiles and reaches for him and laughs. She picks up words like a sponge –– R, okay, drink, visit, blue (because she can’t pronounce elephant yet but that toy in undeniably her favorite), up, no, yes, crap (thank you Grantaire), train, vroom, work, defense attorney –– and tosses them around. The girl talks like her father, all the time and without always knowing what she’s saying. She does it to impress everyone in the office when he takes her to work, or to impress Grantaire when he keeps an eye on her on court days.

Grantaire, to whom Enjolras knows he owes at least part of this. His neighbor must have some sort of baby magic, charming her cheerful. Those days when Ginette utterly refuses him –– and it’s not the middle of the night, and he isn’t working –– a quick message can bring the man downstairs in a moment. Where Enjolras fails Grantaire immediately is accepted by the girl.

It leaves him a little jealous, but mostly he’s glad for the excuse to have the man over more often.

Because he enjoys Grantaire’s presence almost as much as Ginette. He’s infuriatingly cynical and self-deprecating but he’s also brilliant and witty in a dry way that makes Enjolras smile. He dances and boxes and Enjolras only gets to see the doodles he sketches in the margins of whatever papers Enjolras leaves out on the coffee table –– “most of this stuff is shit, trust me, I don’t know why you would want to see it” –– but his art is beautiful and intricate and Enjolras can only imagine the full works his friend leaves upstairs.

He also calls Enjolras ‘Apollo’ which annoyed him at first––

(“I’m hardly what you could call a god, Grantaire.”

“I beg to differ. You’re sunlight made of marble, Enjolras. Trust me.”)

––but now the nickname sends warmth through him.

Or maybe that’s simply Grantaire in general, Enjolras considers in the small hours of the morning while he walks circles through their apartment humming a song Jehan was singing today to lull Ginette back to sleep. Every time R shows up at their door, invited or unannounced, he fights harder to stop himself from making any sort of embarrassing romantic gesture. He has intelligence and a sort of sarcastic kindness and gentleness and a frankly irritating tendency to put himself down that makes Enjolras want to sing his praises all the more. He looks good too, despite his eternally-unkempt state, despite the paint-stained worn-thin jeans and the mess of his hair and his eyes––

He sounds like a kid with a crush. He feels like one too.

“What am I doing?” he murmurs into Ginette’s dark hair. It’s getting long, curling at the tips just like Marius’ did. The girl wuffles against his shoulder and dozes off.

“I don’t know either,” he admits. “I hate not knowing,” he adds with a stubborn frown.

Ginette, asleep on his shoulder, couldn’t care less. So he tucks her back in and tries to sleep himself, instead of thinking himself in circles over his infatuation.

\--

Of course, it all goes wrong.

It happens one morning late in November, a quiet post-it note on the door of the stairs.

_Sold the building. New landlord wants you gone by December._ It’s signed by their landlord.

He shifts Geneviève on his hip and plucks the note off the door, glad for once that he’s the first one in every day. He doesn’t want the others finding this. Then he stops by the office of the man who keeps the bookstore, one M. Mabeuf.

The man sits at his desk, pouring over paperwork. Enjolras knocks on the doorframe and he looks up, glasses slipping down his nose.

“Ah, Enjolras,” he says like a benevolent teacher. “Come in.”

“Good morning, Monsieur,” says Enjolras.

“Good morning. This is about the note, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he confirms. He likes Mabeuf for his tendency to get straight to the issue at hand, and those times he lets rent slide a little. “I assume you’ve spoken to the new landlord.”

“I have. She respects your agency but she has plans for the building.”

Enjolras shifts Geneviève on his hip. “Is there any chance she would be willing to negotiate?”

Mabeuf frowns. “She might, if you talk to her. Jehan speaks quite highly of your oratory skills.” He ducks over his desk for a moment and emerges with a slip of paper. “Here is her phone number. I wish you the best of luck, Monsieur.”

Enjolras thanks him and retreats, phone already in hand. She picks up on the third ring.

Her name is Marie Joubert and she is sharp, apologetic and utterly uncompromising. She tells him that she won’t charge them for rent while they move out and really they have until December tenth at the latest. Enjolras thanks her for her time and promises they’ll be gone as soon as possible. She hangs up first.

He’s already drafting an email as he heads upstairs and considering where else in the city they can base themselves to both make rent and be accessible and wondering how they’re going to move the mountains of paperwork that have gone forth and multiplied around the office.

(At least they’ll have an excuse to buy a new coffee maker.)

Feuilly, second in because his worth ethic is almost as overpowering as Enjolras’ is, finds him at his desk already buried in real estate sites, Ginette chewing on her crayons instead of coloring the paper (because she’s teething again and everything he owns is covered in drool).

“Everything alright?” the accountant asks. Enjolras jolts in surprise and nearly closes out of the page he’s scrolling through.

“We’re being evicted,” he tells his friend. “I just sent out an email with the details.”

“Evicted?” Bossuet asks in the doorway across the room and Enjolras wonders why everyone listens in to each other’s conversations instead of just checking their mail. “By who?”

“Mabeuf’s selling the building. The woman who bought it wants to make it into a restaurant. Renovations start in December. We have to be gone by then.”

“But that’s not even a week,” Feuilly protests. As if Enjolras isn’t aware of that.

(He wants a drink.)

“She’ll let us stay up until the tenth,” Enjolras says calmly. “I’m already looking for new office space. The best thing to do is to continue working as long as we can.”

“You can’t take all the responsibility yourself,” Bossuet argues. “What about your clients?”

“I can do both,” Enjolras shrugs. “We’ll be fine. We’re all on top of our work and on top of rent and Paris is a big city. There’ll be space out there we can use.”

“Yeah, but a week,” Feuilly mumbles.

“Don’t worry about it,” Enjolras tells him firmly. “Go through the books and let me know how much we have. And emergency budget will do us more good than stressing over the problem.”

Feuilly looks like he wants to argue more but lets it go, which is good because Courfeyrac comes through the door crying “We were evicted? When?” and Enjolras turns his attention to calming his friend down and explaining that the situation isn’t as bad as it looks.

(The situation is as bad as it looks. Rent in Paris isn’t cheap and though they’re making progress they’re still over budget and underpaid and Enjolras has three clients at the moment. But he’ll make it work. He needs to make it work. They need him to make it work.)

He rearranges his schedule so he can spend the day looking for a new office and not meeting with clients and makes a list of places to check out and coaxes Ginette into trading the crayons for a teething ring because eating wax cannot be healthy.

(He tries not to wonder if he’s staring the end of his firm in the face. Just as things started looking up they’re falling apart around him.

Again.

He really wants a drink.)

Around noon, when he’s chin deep in tax forms and client emails and scrolling through sites filled with links to offices for lease his phone buzzes with a text from Grantaire asking if they’re still on for tonight.

“Shit,” he mutters, because for once Grantaire has invited them to his apartment (“since you never stop asking about my shitty art, Apollo, and because I actually have drinks at my place”) and now he can’t because on top of everything else that needs to get done he has to find an office and he doesn’t have time to spare.

_Something came up,_ he returns. _I’m sorry._

_no prob_ , R texts. _i get it. work?_

_Yes._

He thinks that’s it. But then, Grantaire likes to talk.

_need help w/ anything??_

No, he’s ready to say –– this is another thing he can do himself –– but he hesitates. He could do it himself, yes. Does he want to?

_Coffee?_ he asks. _There’s a place down the street._

_10 minutes,_ Grantaire replies.

\--

It’s just after twelve, lunch time, so the café is bustling. Enjolras slowly makes his way to the front of the line and orders –– latte and straight-up coffee, like always, and water for Ginette –– and settles by the window to wait, sipping his drink slowly. Geneviève sits in his lap and munches on crackers out of her diaper bag, scattering crumbs everywhere and pointing to people as they walk past the window folded up in dark coats.

“You’re making a mess, Ginette,” he tells her idly.

“Okay,” she replies cheerfully. Another passerby catches her attention and she bounces in his lap a little and points. “R!”

Sure enough Grantaire steps into the cafe, the last of autumn’s leaves chasing him through the doorway. He casts his eyes across the interior and notices Enjolras almost immediately. He wanders over and settles himself across the table. Enjolras pushes his coffee towards him, accidentally brushing freezing fingers. He wants to reach out and hold them until they’re warm again.

He squashes the thought.

“What’s wrong?” Grantaire asks him before even touching his coffee.

“Why does something have to be wrong?” Enjolras frowns.

“Because you call me when stuff’s wrong,” the man replies with a shrug. “And because you told me you can’t come by tonight while I know you’ve wanted to visit for weeks. So what happened?’

“We’re being evicted.”

“That sucks,” Grantaire says. Enjolras laughs without humor.

“I know.”

“Why?”

“New landlord wants to start a restaurant.”

“That really sucks.”

“I know,” Enjolras repeats. Grantaire’s staring at him with a wry smile on his face. “What?”

“Kinda funny,” the man shrugs. “I mean, you go out of your way to support people who need it and you can’t actually support yourselves. Kind of ironic.”

Enjolras stares at him and tries to choke down the anger bubbling inside him. Everything sucks. He doesn’t need to take it out on Grantaire.

“This isn’t a joke,” he manages, voice cold and hard and far sharper than he intended. Grantaire doesn’t mean it like that, he knows rationally. He’s just trying to lighten the situation, because it’s what he does best. He comforts, with sarcasm and bad jokes and a kindness he keeps hidden under a veneer of cynicism and carelessness.

(Enjolras thought it might help. It doesn’t.)

“Sorry,” he mutters moments later, unable to face Grantaire’s hurt eyes. Instead he finger combs Ginette’s hair, soothing her. She doesn’t like it when they fight (and they don’t do it that often, and they mean it even less, but she does know that; she cries and clings anyways and neither of them can stand that). “Sorry.”

“I know it’s not a joke,” Grantaire says. “But really, Apollo, I don’t know what to do here. It’s not like this is something I can fix or whatever.”

The way he says it –– like Enjolras expects Grantaire to fix everything, fix Ginette’s tears and his exhaustion and the firm’s impending homelessness.

He has it all wrong. Enjolras calls him because Grantaire is a comfort in the face of it all.

“I don’t expect it to be,” Enjolras scowls. “You’re not the fix-it man for my problems.”

And that– shit, that’s not how he meant it but the words are out, fierce and sincere and Grantaire is taking them exactly the wrong way.

“So what am I then?” the man challenges. Anger turns him into a stranger, face twisting in a hard, harsh smirk. Always amused, be it true amusement or merely the mockery of such. “Some poor bastard you decided to take pity on? Your babysitter? Is it because you don’t have enough causes to see to during the day and you had to find one at home as well? Dragging cynical, useless R away from his wine and his underachieving life? Do you enjoy stringing me along?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Enjolras shoots back.

“No? What did you mean then?”

“I can fix my own problems,” the blond asserts. “I don’t call you to make my issues disappear. I actually enjoy your presence, most of the time, when you’re not being a sanctimonious jackass.”

They’re the wrong words. They’re the wrong words and he knows it the minute he opens his mouth but something about Grantaire has always left him speaking his mind and not thinking about the consequences.

(I don’t mean it. I come to you because you make me feel better. I’m sorry.)

Grantaire’s smirk twists into something ugly. (He calls himself ugly, but the only thing ugly about him is his anger, his self-hatred.) “That’s rich coming from you, Apollo. So determined to believe that everyone needs you to solve their problems, so determined to hold the world on your shoulders like you’re Atlas when really you’re just an idealistic, arrogant man. Grow up. The world’s problems aren’t yours to fix.”

Enjolras feels like he’s been hit. Air hisses out between his teeth and anger rises up behind his sternum and his fists clench on their own volition, grabbed with a sudden urge to hit him. Instead he laces his fingers together and leans forward, forcing the anger from burning hot to cold and hard and utterly unyielding.

(Fire destroys, as he well knows. He should know that cold can be just as dangerous.)

“You’re right,” he says, voice soft and hard, and Grantaire’s eyes drop down to Ginette briefly, like he can’t sustain eye contact, before they flick up again. “Of course. What can one person do? Why should I bother? I should just give up now before I disappoint myself and live a life filled with pointless work and shrug at the problems I see around me. What’s the point?”

“Enjolras––”

He steamrolls right over Grantaire. “I don’t want to live the way you live.”

Now it’s Grantaire who looks like he’s been struck (and he hates that look on him, he wants to wash it away but he’s too angry to reach out and apologize).

“Thank you for enlightening me as to how you feel about this. I’ll do my best not to bother you in the future.”

He collects Ginette and their things and strides out of the café, coffee only half-finished. But he cannot spend another second there, watching emotions play out across Grantaire’s face. He can’t stand being near the man, not if that’s what he really thinks. Not after what he said.

He isn’t sure what they had, this almost-dating thing that involved dinners in and long debates and coffee in the mornings and encouragement and care. All he knows is that they just broke it, and he doesn’t think he can fix it.

“R?” Ginette asks as he steps outside. The wind chills him to the bone, slipping down streets and under his jacket. “Okay?”

“No, Ginette,” Enjolras tells her. “R isn’t okay. Nor am I.”

She stares at him for a long time. She looks like Cosette with those eyes, despite her father’s hair. She has her mother’s attitude. And her mother’s heart.

“Love,” she tells him solemnly. She leans forward to give him a wet baby kiss on his cheek, laughing at his stubble. “Okay?”

Enjolras finds himself blinking back tears, trying not to cry as he strides down the sidewalk. (He feels Grantaire’s eyes burning into his back.) “Yeah, Ginette. Okay.”

\--

He wastes the rest of day, staying at home and playing with Ginette and trying not to hit something or hate himself.

(He considers calling, briefly, but his pride recoils and anger burns in his stomach again so his phone remains tucked in a pocket.)

And despite his personal issues, life goes on. Lacking his only babysitter ( _So what am I then? Your babysitter?_ ) Enjolras begs Jehan to keep an eye on Ginette Tuesday morning and, list of offices for lease in one hand and annual budget in the other, he sets out to talk to landlords and tour available office spaces.

It takes three days, a furious three hours of bartering before they have another place, just south of the river. It’s one suite of nine and (if possible) even more cramped than their previous building (and rent is more expensive as well, but only by a little, so they put down a deposit and suffer through a pay cut until they’re doing well enough again to make up the deficit, assuming they ever reach that milestone) but they also have an honest-to-god conference room for once ( they share it with three other startup companies but those are tech firms who never leave their desks so the conference room may as well belong to them alone) and a closet filled with filing cabinets.

In lieu of panicking, Enjolras buys a bottle of champagne and they toast their new office.

Enjolras re-enrolls Ginette in daycare (because their new landlord doesn’t want children on the premiss; this isn’t some shoddy backyard office this is a fully-functioning suite and you can’t bring your kids to work with you), and while she behaves much better it also costs money he doesn’t exactly have to spend at the moment. He can’t even pick up an extra job because he’s working overtime to help make up their debt and he’s in court weekly and they have clients but half of them can’t pay and at some point they’ll have to start refusing people who don’t have enough money and that’s the last thing Enjolras wants, so he puts in the extra effort times ten.

He feels like he’s drowning in case files and work and need. He misses Ginette always at his shoulder or his ankle, bright and comforting and needy but in a good way, not the panic that his job induces. She encourages him to try harder. His work makes him want to put his head in his hands and run away, because he tries and tries and still they’re barely managing. (And yet, he refuses to give up. He’s too stubborn for that.)

Mostly, though, he misses Grantaire. He misses his wit and his sarcasm and his taste in wine (even if he drinks too often and too much). Nights that Ginette won’t settle he no longer has someone to call; instead he spends hours singing softly and hoping she’ll finally nod off so he can finish the thousand and one things he has to do before sunrise. He misses the cozy dinners and the coffee and the doodles on his paperwork that he complained about but loved and the way they could sit together and talk.

He misses the rough, soothing cadence of Grantaire’s voice and the feel of  the man’s shoulder pressed against his own and the smell of paint and alcohol.

(Combeferre drops by unannounced one weekend, just before Christmas, to find him sitting in the middle of the living room while Ginette naps, for once, with a plastic Christmas tree in pieces around him. Enjolras, not expecting company, looks up when the door opens expecting someone else. He knows better than to hope.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre says when when sees him, exhausted and maybe a little too thin and slumped in the middle of the room. “What happened?”

“I messed up,” he tells him. “And a lot of other shit. But somewhere in there I messed up.”

He doesn’t pull away when he sits next to him and wraps his arms around him. Never has he missed his sister as much as he does now.

“I’m fine,” he tells him.

“Stop lying to me,” he replies. “And stop lying to yourself. You don’t always have to be the chief, you know.”

“I don’t know what else to be.”

Combeferre smiles a sly smile and says, “Be my best man?”

Enjolras stares and then hits him and smiles despite himself. “You jerk, you didn’t tell me before you asked?”

“I didn’t know if she’d say yes,” his best friend replies, bashful.

“Of course she was going to say yes,” Enjolras tells him, smile stretching bigger by the moment for his best friend’s happiness. For a little while, at least, everything looks brighter.

And when Eponine stops by later in the day he tells her off too for not letting him know immediately and they sit around the table and laugh and talk and everything feels right.)

In late December Bossuet invites the entire firm over for dinner and drinks on Christmas eve because Musichetta and Joly have only met about half of them and Armand wants to see Ginette again and it’s the holidays so they all leave early the twenty-fourth and take the metro to Bossuet’s (even Enjolras, because Ginette’s daycare is closed all week so she’s with him despite their landlord’s complaints, running in wobbly circles around Bahorel’s legs as the carriage sways back and forth on the tracks).

“She’s so mature” Courfeyrac marvels, one arm slung around Jehan (because months later they’re still going steady, and it’s sickeningly adorable and Enjolras refuses to be jealous).

“She’s not even eighteen months old,” Enjolras replies, watching her bobble back and forth.

“Yeah but still. I mean, did she just wake one morning walking and talking? I’m almost afraid I’ll blink and she’ll be grown.”

“That’s what it’s like with Armand,” Bossuet says next to him. “Joly takes pictures of everything but it’s like he just sprung up out of nowhere one day. They grow like weeds, let me tell you. She’ll outgrow anything you put her in.”

“Luckily we all bought her clothes for Christmas,” Feuilly jokes.

“I hope you did,” Enjolras says. “Children’s clothing costs a fortune.”

“Do I sense a new crusade coming on?” Bahorel asks. Enjolras shakes his head.

“All I’m saying is that the world could do with some children’s products that are better made and aren’t overpriced.”

“I’d drink to that,” Bossuet agrees. “Just wait until you have one.”

“Gay,” Courfeyrac practically sings.

“We’ll adopt,” Jehan tells him, grinning at the blush that stains his boyfriend’s cheeks. Enjolras leaves them to their moment of domestic bliss.

(He does not think of riding the metro with Grantaire, pressed shoulder to shoulder.)

\--

He and Ginette leave the party with laughter still echoing in his ears and phone filled with photos of Jehan and Courfeyrac under the mistletoe and Bahorel doing handstands into the Christmas tree and Armand and Ginette curled up asleep on the sofa. When they get home she’s asleep again so he tucks her in and finishes setting up for the morning.

It dawns a little earlier than he would like with a dirty diaper and a hungry seventeen month old but it’s Christmas so for once he refrains from grumbling and complaining and instead sets her down in the hallway so she can toddle towards their cheap plastic Christmas tree that Combeferre and Eponine helped decorate that one afternoon (which is why it’s blanketed in red ornaments and really that’s not the only color he wears and he does not deserve Eponine’s teasing). He slips his phone out while he’s at it. Cosette and Marius will come back from the dead and beat him if he doesn’t take Christmas photos.

“Most of these are for you,” he tells the girl, sitting next to the small pile under the tree. “A lot of people like you.”

“Okay,” she grins. He thinks it might be her favorite word, after R. But she never calls for the man anymore.

(Enjolras feels like a magnificent bastard for ruining their relationship. He feels worse knowing he still lives just up the stairs, and he could walk up those nineteen steps and see him, apologize or explain or ask to start again. Instead they both go about their lives. Enjolras hasn’t even seen Grantaire since he walked out of the coffee shop. And he misses him, constantly.)

“Which one do you want to open first?” he asks Ginette. She zeros in on a small rectangle covered in bright red, sparkling wrapping paper.

“That!” she points with a grin. Enjolras smiles and puts the gift in her lap and snaps a picture as she rips into it with abandon.

Half an hour, a train set, three books, a toy horse, a coloring book, four pairs of clothes (still slightly too large, _Dieu merci_ ) and a pile of wrapping paper later the girl’s presents have all been unwrapped and it’s his turn. The remaining packages under the tree are for him. He opens them far more carefully than Ginette, folding the paper up to be recycled later and balling the tape together to trash.

From Combeferre and Eponine he has fifty dollars gift card for books _that you want to read, so don’t spend it all on Geneviève, okay?_ Bossuet, Joly and Chetta gift him with a very nice bottle of wine that makes him think of Grantaire. Courf and Jehan get him a new work bag _because_ _we’ve seen the state of yours and isn’t it your college backpack anyways?_ Feuilly sends him a calligraphy set (because he mentioned it to the other man once, and Enjolras is touched he remembered). Bahorel buys him an actual book, _How to Survive the Zombie Apocalypse_ because he spends too much time playing zombie-themed video games and Enjolras knows for a fact that all the gifts he bought for people are zombie-themed as well.

As he sits with Ginette drinking coffee and playing trains (his gift to her, and by far her favorite) he wonders what it would be like to enjoy Christmas with Cosette and Marius. He imagines what it could be like if his parents were still around and they could all go home for the holidays.

He wonders how Grantaire celebrates upstairs, if he’s alone during Christmas as well. He wonders what it would be like to invite him down, share Christmas dinner and eggnog (which he hates) and presents.

(It would be so easy to go upstairs and invite him down. And it would be so hard, seeing him face to face. Or maybe he’s just a coward.)

“Merry Christmas, Ginette,” he murmurs, kissing her atop the head. She smells like baby powder and fruit. “I’m very glad to be sharing it with you.”

She grins up at him and gestures for food, because sometimes hand signs are just easier. Enjolras hoists her up –– when did she get so heavy? –– and the two make their way into the kitchen. He sets her down next to the table and finds a box of cereal, pouring her a bowl of child-friendly food. Outside the slate-grey sky slowly lights up. Paris in the winter is monochrome, and still beautiful.

They spend the day together, lazy and loving, and late in the afternoon they flip on the TV and watch _It’s a Wonderful Life_ which always leaves him crying at the end (which is why he never, ever watches it with company). George Bailey is the kind of man he wants to be, giving and helpful and always there for the people who need and love him.

(He first saw the movie with his mother, and ever since it stands like an untarnished reminder of her.)

As the sun sets Ginette starts yawning so they turn the TV off and take a bath (and she splashes enough water onto him that he may as well be bathing as well) and he sets her down in her crib.

“No,” she tells him, clinging to the wooden bars and staring at him as he tries to leave.

“But it’s bedtime,” he argues softly.

“No,” she tells him again. “Up.”

And so (because it’s Christmas, and because you can’t really spoil babies –– can you?) he turns around and picks her up, warm and clean and smelling like soap and fruit.

“Okay, _petite_ ,” he says to her. “You’re up. Now what?”

“Dada.”

He stares.

“What?” The word is a whisper. She bounces in his arms.

“Dada! Da da da!”

He has to sit down. In the middle of the floor.

She can’t call him that. He’s not her father (not good enough to be her father, not Marius or Cosette, he was just thrown into this and he can’t deal; he doesn’t deserve it). But she doesn’t care. Tiny and innocent and she doesn’t know. She doesn’t care.

“No, Ginette,” he tells her helplessly, “Geneviève you can’t call me that, I’m not your dada I’m just… I’m just Enjolras, Uncle Enjolras I don’t know how to be your father––”

“Dada,” she insists with a round, wet baby kiss and earnest eyes and loss swamps him all over again until he can’t breathe, until it hurts again like the fire was yesterday and not half a year ago. He leans back until he falls, spread out on the thin, rough carpet with Ginette happily pillowed on his chest, staring up at the cheap glow-in-the-dark stars Jehan plastered to the ceiling in the shape of actual constellations.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he tells her.

She doesn’t care. She doesn’t care because he loves her and he tries his hardest and he doesn’t know what to do in the face of her certainty and his fear.

Eventually she dozes off on his chest, held in place with a careful arm. He spends most of the night staring up at the ceiling and wondering how he ended up like this.


	7. Chapter 7

In the morning he wakes with a small puddle of drool soaking through his shirt and a sore back and a minor headache, exacerbated by Ginette’s cry of protest when he accidentally wakes her as he sits up.

“Shh,” he mumbles like a man with a hangover (he hasn’t got a hangover, he hasn’t even opened his wine), setting her down in her crib so he can stumble over to the coffee machine and start a pot brewing. Her protests echo through the apartment.

“Just a moment,” he calls on his way back, making a valiant effort not to trip on the train track running straight across their living room. She grumbles when he appears in the doorway and holds her hands up towards him. “Shush, Ginette, you’re making my head hurt.”

He lifts her from her bed and changes her and lets her run around his feet, awake and ready for another day of new toys and no school. Enjolras follows her, dead on his feet and viciously uncertain and wondering if he can coax her back to sleep so he can get some himself.

(He can’t.)

The day passes just like the previous one, except instead of playing trains Ginette wants to color and Enjolras has an inbox full of emails to wade through, so they sit next to each other at the table. Enjolras only has to coax Ginette to stop eating the crayons twice. After lunch they step out, briefly, to check their mail.

The only mail they receive at home is junk or packages, so Enjolras is not expecting the thick, heavy envelope sitting in their mail slot. When he flips it over his full legal name –– the one he only uses in court because he loves his parents dearly but the name they gifted him is a monstrosity –– is embossed on the cream-colored paper. Curious, his slides a finger beneath the flap and pries it open, Ginette holding on to his pant leg.

A stack of papers tumbles out of the envelope and onto the mail table. Enjolras picks the cover sheet off the stack and skims through it. Then he stops and reads it through fully, to make sure the letter says what he thinks it says.

On the fourth read-through his hands start shaking, and he realizes he’s clutching the table so hard the remaining papers have begun to crumple under under the pressure. He forces himself to relax so he can stack the heavy sheets back up and fold them and tuck them back in their envelope. Ginette pulls on his pants a little and he wants to pick her up but at the moment he doesn’t trust himself not to drop her. So instead he leans on the table and tries to fucking control himself.

This is, of course, when Grantaire blows through the front door.

Ginette sees him immediately and, with a shrill exclamation of utter joy, runs to him and grabs him around the knees so tightly he almost falls on top of her. Enjolras stares down at the table and lets his eyes briefly drift shut. He hears Grantaire laugh and then Ginette laughs back and Enjolras knows he’s picked her up. He swallows back emotion –– panic and exhaustion and stress and everything else –– and forces himself upright. His knuckles strain white around the envelope in his hands.

Grantaire finally looks up to meet his eyes. Enjolras thought maybe he was misremembering their impossible shade of blue. He wasn’t.

(His hands won’t stop shaking.)

“Hi,” Enjolras says, words slipping out past the lump caught in his throat. He should say something else but all he can do is stand there, hands shaking a little. Excerpts of the letter clenched in his fists echo in his mind, cold empty words whispered again and again.

“Hello,” Grantaire replies. He looks at Enjolras carefully (like he’s looking through him, like he can see how frayed he is around the edges) and frowns. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, fine,” he manages. He holds his emotions tighter, tries to force his hands calm. “Everything is fine.”

Ginette frowns at him too, big blue eyes fixed on him and it’s not fair. She whimpers a little and reaches for him.

“Dada,” she says.

He tries not to recoil.

Grantaire looks down at the girl and then back at Enjolras and moves a half step closer, strangely cautious.

“Enjolras?” he asks.

“It’s nothing,” Enjolras waves off, recollecting himself, trying to fit the pieces of himself back together. Grantaire sees through him.

“Uh, nothing personal but it’s kind of obviously something.”

“Would you like me to tell you so you can fix it?” Enjolras sneers before he can stop himself, and backpedals immediately. “Fuck. Sorry.”

“Enjolras, what’s wrong?” Grantaire asks, stepping forward again to lay a warm hand on his arm, and Enjolras slumps like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Marius’ grandfather wants custody of Geneviève,” he says to the ground, utterly exhausted and fight gone out of him. “He’s prepared to go to court.”

“Oh,” says Grantaire.

Enjolras laughs, hollow and rough. “Yeah.”

“Dada,” Ginette repeats, and this time he doesn’t shy away. Instead he takes her from Grantaire and holds her tight, pressing a gentle kiss atop her head. When he looks up again Grantaire is still standing there, watching them silently.

“What?” Enjolras asks tiredly.

“Nothing,” Grantaire shrugs. “Just, you’re not gonna give it to him, are you?”

Enjolras starts to answer and stops himself.

Logically, M. Gillenormand is the better choice of guardian. He has the resources Enjolras lacks, the resources to raise Ginette without ever worrying about money. He doesn’t work a job that requires incredible amounts of time. He lives in a large house with plenty of space for a growing girl. He can afford to send her to advanced, better schools. He has the sort of stability that Enjolras doesn’t. He can do more for the girl than Enjolras can. Wouldn’t that be better for her?

But his mind calls up memories of Jehan braiding her hair with bright ribbons, of Courfeyrac grinning as she wanders around the office, of Armand playing with her in the sandbox and the two curled up on the sofa, and the way Eponine’s eyes crinkle when she sees Marius’ daughter. He thinks of Feuilly’s fond smiles and Bahorel letting her decorate his face with bandaids and Combeferre’s quiet voice reading to her.

He thinks of subway rides next to Grantaire and three people at the dinner table and peekaboo and painter’s fingers sketching next to chubby, awkward hands.

He sees how bright she is, how much she shines, how dim life would be without her.

This is the man who separated Marius from his father, and Marius never forgave his grandfather for that. To subject Geneviève to him is the last thing Marius wanted. It is the last thing Enjolras wants.

(The others are right. He is not Marius, but that doesn’t mean he cannot also be father to her.)

“No,” he says, his conviction like iron. “No, I’m not.”

“Good,” Grantaire says, shoving his hands in his pockets, already moving away. “I’ll go then.”

“Wait,” Enjolras calls. Grantaire pauses and turns back around, and Enjolras feels his mouth go suddenly dry.

“Yeah?”

“I–– Would you––” The words tangle on his tongue; he has to stop to sort them out. “I could really use some help with this.”

“Yeah.”

“I’d like yours.”

“It helps when you apologize,” Grantaire replies, but it lacks heat. Enjolras stares at him for a long minute, carefully choosing his words. They both excel at twisting the meaning of their conversations, and he wants to avoid miscommunication in this, because he must not fuck up this chance to cross the breach between them.

“I’m not a great person,” he says finally. “I have a–– a problem with responsibility. And I deal with my emotions poorly. I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry you got hurt because I was afraid. I’m sorry I haven’t tried to fix this––” (whatever _this_ is between them) “––even though it’s my fault. I’m sorry I’m not strong enough to help myself and too stubborn to ask.” His mouth twists into the wry mockery of a smile. “You were right, Grantaire. I can’t do this myself. I just can’t. But I don’t know how else to do it.”

There. He said it. A pressure lifts off his chest, noticed only now that it’s gone. He stands straighter and stares at Grantaire, waiting for a reply. Almost daring.

“You ridiculous man,” Grantaire says, voice a little rough. “You utterly ridiculous man. You are surrounded by people who would drop everything to answer your call. It’s been a month and if you asked it of my I would still be at your door in an instant. I would happily spend my life doing whatever you need me to, if you only asked––”

“No,” Enjolras interrupts, quiet but catching fire, until he is burning. He cuts through Grantaire’s words without apology. “Stop talking and listen. I don’t want you to fix anything. All I want is for you to be you. You are solid and you are steady and you are safe. And it has sucked so, so much not seeing you these past weeks. I missed you. I love you. So stop insisting that you’re just a fix-it guy because you’re not. You are so much more than that.”

And Grantaire, for once, has no words.

“I come to you because you make it better,” Enjolras tells him earnestly. He doesn’t realize he’s moved until he’s standing a foot away from Grantaire. “You always make it better.”

“You love me,” Grantaire says flatly.

“Oh,” Enjolras stutters out, his own words catching up with him. “Uh. Yeah.” Because he does, because that’s the word for the blooming warmth and the subtle ache and mornings around town and dinners pressed together at the table, and the realization arrives without fanfare, only truth. Grantaire just keeps staring, though and Enjolras falls back in on himself a little, beset by worry that it’s the wrong thing to say, that he’s just further messed everything up.

(But then, he was never one to lie.)

So he swallows and waits, suddenly viciously uncertain, fire doused.

“I understand if that makes you uncomfortable,” he says when Grantaire remains silent, words catching in his throat. He’s a man of emotion, and words; putting them together shouldn’t be this difficult. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry. I–– Will you at least visit Ginette now and again? She likes you.”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Grantaire tells him. And the man grabs his shirt and kisses him.

They line up almost perfectly, lips searching, it’s warm and fierce and everything Enjolras could have dreamed and they don’t pull apart until Ginette kicks against his hip and whines in complaint. Enjolras strokes her hair, staring at Grantaire.

(The red of his lips accents the blue of his eyes. It’s really not fair.)

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he says smugly.

“I–– what?” Enjolras manages.

“Since I saw you move in, pretty much. I mean you’re gorgeous. Seriously you pull of hot dad really well. But then you started talking and God. The things I would do with your mouth. And to top it off you just had to be brilliant and charming and a fucking fantastic cook and so fiercely dedicated to everything. I don’t know how you do it.”

“You’re not freaked out.”

“I’m not–– _putain_ , Enjolras, I’ve loved you since I met you, do you have any idea what you’ve been doing to me? I woke up early for you and took you to fucking Montmartre the week we met Jesus fucking Christ I––”

Grantaire obviously has more to add but Enjolras beats him there, moving in close and kissing him again, sweet and soft (except for the scrape of stubble against his cheek, but that’s a study in contrasts that he doesn’t mind), and Grantaire’s beautiful, irreverent voice goes silent because his mouth (surprisingly soft, easily molded against his own) is otherwise occupied. This kind of silence is the best kind of silence, Enjolras decides.

He pulls away just a little, to lean his head against Grantaire’s. “Will you help?” he asks softly.

“If you’ll permit it,” Grantaire replies, a little breathless.

Enjolras just smiles and laces their fingers together. Grantaire grins back.

Ginette shatters the moment, kicking him in the ribs and tugging at his hair. So Enjolras hefts her a little and allows Grantaire to take the envelope clutched in his hand and lead them back upstairs, hand in hand.

\--

Grantaire stays the night.

\--

Courfeyrac beats him into work the next morning. He greets Enjolras with a smug smile and a stack of memos. Enjolras accepts the memos and ignores the smile. Courfeyrac, of course, only smiles wider.

(Enjolras wonders where Jehan is, because the two always come to work together.)

“Greetings, oh fearless leader,” he proclaims, following Enjolras to his desk. “What brings you in at this late hour?”

“It’s not even eight yet,” Enjolras tells him, dropping into his chair and stacking the memos in a tray on his desk that exists solely for that purpose no matter how often Courfeyrac ignores it. Just as he does now.

“In all the years of this firm I have only beaten you to work once, and that was when––” His friend cuts himself off and his eyes light up in understanding. Enjolras stifles a sigh. “Oh, man, you got––”

“Not now, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras cuts him off, plugging his computer in and resolutely not blushing.

“I am perfectly within my rights as best friend to congratulate you on your conquests.”

“Courf, seriously.”

“Was it good? You’re blushing, I hope it was.”

“Drop it,” Enjolras warns.

“You can’t just not tell me.”

“You have a problem, has anyone ever told you that?”

“You have on multiple occasions,” Courfeyrac says. “But you love me anyways.”

“You’re like a hyper, perverted puppy.”

“Aw, E, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Courfeyrac I swear to God––”

“Fine, fine. I’m dropping it. I’ll ask him when I meet him.”

“Who’s meeting who?” Bahorel asks, entering the suite with Feuilly in tow. Jehan appears behind them with two paper coffee cups from the café downstairs.

“Well, see, Enjolras came in late today because he’s got a new _chéri_ but he won’t tell me anything so I, as a good friend, am going t––”

Enjolras kicks Courfeyrac in the shin and he yelps and, finally, shuts up. The other three, wisely, do not say anything. Bossuet breaks the silence falling up the stairs. Jehan barely saves the coffee when Bossuet wildly grabs at him to steady himself.

“Now that everyone’s here,” Enjolras begins, ignoring Courfeyrac rubbing his shin and scowling, and Bossuet’s mumbled apologies, and the rest of the past five minutes because it’s too early to deal with that no matter how good his mood, “how familiar are you with Monsieur Gillenormand?”

Everyone standing in the doorway moves forward, dropping bags at desks and clustering around Enjolras’ desk even though they don’t really fit there. “Isn’t he the one who owns GCN? The bank?” Feuilly asks, sitting in his chair across the aisle. “What about him?”

“He’s our new case,” Enjolras says. “If you’re up for it.”

“You want us to work for him?” Jehan grimaces next to Courfeyrac.

“No,” Enjolras corrects. “I want your help defending against him.”

“Who’s the client?” Bahorel asks, perched on top of Feuilly’s desk (which creaks in protest but Bahorel lives life on the edge and doesn’t move).

Enjolras sighs. “Me.”

A cry of general outrage and confusion rises from the assembled group. Enjolras waits patiently for all of them to quiet again.

“Why?” Courfeyrac asks. His eyes narrow. “What did you do? I know you’re not a corporations sort of guy but seriously, Enjolras, you know better than to challenge them directly outside the courtroom.”

“It’s not business related,” he answers. When no one says anything he leans back in his chair a little and sighs again. “He’s Marius’ grandfather. He wants custody of Geneviève.”

“He can’t,” Courfeyrac argues hotly, overriding the others’ comments. “You did everything legally, Marius and Cosette named you legal guardian in their will. He has no right.”

“You say that like the cares,” scowls Bahorel.

“He claims the situation has changed and thus needs a formal court review,” Enjolras says, searching through his bag for the envelope. When his fingers close around it he draws the offending papers out and passes them to Courfeyrac. “He claims the loss of the old office and the subsequent financial issues are reason enough to examine guardianship. And since EU laws are so stringent about child care and safety he could potentially make a case of this, and if he does it will be us against everything he has.”

“Technically you’re closer relative,” Bossuet weighs in, arms crossed and carefully not sitting or leaning on anything. “So shouldn’t you have primary custody, will or no?”

“Yes,” Enjolras agrees. “But I don’t think he cares.”

“He can’t make a case if everything’s already above board and signed off on,” Courfeyrac points out.

“He can if he has the money,” Jehan frowns. “Throw enough money at the problem and you can get anything.”

“Why now though?” Feuilly asks. “Why not when it was first brought up?”

“Because it’s all legal and what Marius and Cosette wanted,” Enjolras answers. “But now there’s an excuse to bring it back up.”

“If he really just wants what’s best for her, like he claims,” Courfeyrac starts, gesturing to the letter in his hands, “then why doesn’t he just help pay for her, or visit.”

“Because his problem isn’t really with Ginette,” Bossuet answers before Enjolras can. “No family member who really cares about a kid would go after their guardians unprovoked unless they have a problem with them.” He speaks like a man with experience. Enjolras nods to him in agreement.

“So what’s Gillenormand’s problem with you?” Bahorel demands.

“I’m gay,” Enjolras shrugs. “And Gillenormand is a traditionalist. Marius hated him.”

“Well, I’m in,” Courfeyrac says, and he puts his hand in the middle of the loose circle they’ve formed like he’s team captain leading them in a cheer.

“Me too,” Jehan says, and adds his hand to the pile.

Bahorel slides off Feuilly’s desk and adds his hand with a grin. “I love taking down the big guys.”

Feuilly doesn’t smile but he does place his hand on top of Bahorel’s. “I feel like I should be quoting the Three Musketeers,” he sighs.

“No parent should ever have to give up his child,” Bossuet says. Enjolras feels unexpectedly touched.

“You have to join in too, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac tells him when he doesn’t move. “This is your party after all.”

“Thank you,” he says to all of them, and even though it’s ridiculous he puts his hand on top of theirs.

“Of course,” Jehan says, like this is the most obvious response in the world. “All you ever have to do is ask.”

Gratitude wells up in Enjolras, but he is spared from replying when Courfeyrac tops off the pile and say, “So what do you think? Fuck the police on three?”

And Bahorel cheers and Jehan elbows him and Courf does the count off and everyone laughs when he’s the only one to shout, and Enjolras watches them all with a fond smile.

This is his family.

\--

There’s a woman waiting outside the apartment when he gets home from picking up Ginette, who has been telling him all about her day in strung-together nouns and verbs he half understands. She’s leaning against the wall in a black suit and Enjolras notices her the moment he turns the corner. The woman –– tall, dark-haired, arms folded –– doesn’t notice him until he’s at the door.

“M. Enjolras?”

“Yes?”

She frowns a little and produces a card from her jacket. Gillenormand’s name is scrawled across the front in the same fluid handwriting as the envelope currently sitting in his bag. “M. Gillenormand requests you consider his offer, and invites you to visit his home in order to help acclimate Geneviève to the environment.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras returns, accepting the business card. “However, as Marius and Cosette both appointed me Ginette’s guardian, I’m afraid I am disinclined to accept Monsieur Gillenormand’s offer and will not be visiting. If he wants to go through with this I will see him in court. Good day, Madame.”

He doesn’t give her time to reply before entering the apartment building. He takes the stairs two at a time, brimming with anger.

(How dare the old man think he can waltz in and take her away. How dare he send his people to do what he should face in person. How dare he expect Enjolras to violate Marius and Cosette’s trust.)

Ginette must notice his aggravation because she stops chatting and looks at him. Enjolras unlocks their front door and smiles wanly.

“Sorry, _petite_. I’m not angry at you.”

“Okay?”

Enjolras lets her down and starts moving around their flat, dropping his bag on the table and kicking off his shoes. She toddles after him, frowning a little, curly wisps of hair falling into her eyes as she bobbles. Enjolras sighs and sits on the floor. She climbs into his lap.

“Your great-grandfather wants to take you away,” he says, knowing she’s too young to understand exactly what he’s saying. Wide blue eyes stare up at him. “But I don’t want you to go away.”

( I love you. I can’t bear to lose you too.)

“Dada,” she says, and he bends down a little ways to drop a kiss atop her head.

“That’s right,” he mumbles into her hair. “I’m your dada and I will be your dada as long as you will have me. Gillenormand can’t change that.”

She doesn’t understand the words. But she understands emotion, and when she snuggles back into his chest he hugs her all the tighter.

She doesn’t stay put, of course, because children never stay still for long, so when she starts to wriggle Enjolras lets her go. He doesn’t get up, though. He remains on the thin carpet, watching her waddle around the room. He hasn’t felt this sort of fear in his gut since his first case. If he loses this it doesn’t mean disappointment and apologies to the client. It means Ginette.

He’s scared.

“Dada,” Ginette interrupts his thoughts. “Play.”

Enjolras conjures a smile for her, chases away the fear that hangs over him, and plays trains.

\--

Gillenormand does not take long to reply. The method in which he does it, however, surprises Enjolras.

A knock on the door interrupts dinner.

“I didn’t know you were expecting company,” Grantaire says next to him while Enjolras tries to coax some vegetables into Ginette. She utterly refuses to eat anything green.

“I wasn’t,” Enjolras replies with a sigh. This is his night off, a night put aside for him and Grantaire without worrying about work or Gillenormand or anything except dinner and his family (date night, Courfeyrac calls it, and so what if it is). Another knock rings out. Enjolras gives up on getting food into Ginette and stands up.

“I’ll be right back,” he apologizes.

Gillenormand is at the door.

Dark, piercing eyes stare at him from beneath a lowered brow, making his nose look even more hawkish. The neatly-trimmed white hair and beard should make him look older but instead he only looks fierce. Enjolras tenses, feeling immediately wrong-footed and defensive.

(This is his home, his place of safety. Gillenormand has no right to infringe upon this sanctuary.)

“Enjolras,” the man frowns.

“Monsieur,” Enjolras returns, cool and far more composed than he feels. “I’m afraid you’ve come by at a bad time.”

“Who is it, Apollo?” Grantaire asks from behind him. Gillenormand’s frown deepens and Enjolras twists around a little to see Grantaire has joined them, Ginette safely ensconced in his arms. Grantaire’s face hardens the moment he sees the old man in the doorway.

“Who are you?” Gillenormand asks him, turning to Enjolras before either can reply. “Who is he?”

“Grantaire,” Grantaire answers smoothly, which is good because Enjolras is having trouble forming words. “His boyfriend.”

And oh, Enjolras wishes he hadn’t said that.

(Yes he does, he revels in it; if Gillenormand weren’t right there he’d turn around and kiss the man senseless.)

But Gillenormand’s eyes narrow and he steps back a half-step, frowning at Enjolras.

“You would subject the child to this?” he demands.

“I subject _Ginette_ to nothing,” Enjolras snaps. “You’ve overstayed your welcome. Please leave.”

For a brief, terrible moment Enjolras thinks he’s going to stay, but Gillenormand just raises his chin and twists around, leaving without another word. Enjolras doesn’t bother trying to stop himself from slamming the door behind him.

“Dada?” Ginette asks. Grantaire joins him at the door, passing her off without a word.

“ _Ça va, petite_ ,” Enjolras murmurs. “Everything’s alright.” Over her head Grantaire gives him a look, part disbelief and part apology and mostly anger. Enjolras leans in to kiss away the furrows over his brow.

“That’s him?” Grantaire asks. Enjolras nods. “What a colossal dick.”

Enjolras has a few choice words to describe him as well. He will not say them in front of Ginette.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, shifting Ginette higher up on his hip. “I was hoping you wouldn’t have to meet him. Ever.”

“Better sooner than later, I guess,” Grantaire shrugs, and then he goes still. “Uh, was it okay that I, y’know, said I was your, uh, boyfriend?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, and he kisses him for good measure. “Yes, more than okay.” Grantaire smiles, tentative and brilliant, and Enjolras has to kiss him again.

\--

Enjolras privately nurses the hope that the insight into his private life will lead Gillenormand to back down from his attack, but instead he receives an email with a court date in his inbox when he arrives at work the next morning. Alone in the office, as usual for that hour, he allows himself a minute to panic, then brings his emotions back under control and settles down to put together a winning argument.

Courfeyrac will represent him, because Enjolras doesn’t trust himself to stand up in front of a judge and remain rational, and Courf has a way with people. Jehan gathers documents and leaves them on his desk, so each morning the relevant legalese is there, waiting for him and Courfeyrac to go through it and pull out the necessary pieces. Feuilly brings coffee. Bahorel and Bossuet keep the rest of the firm running smoothly while Enjolras funnels all his attention into his case. He will not lose it. He refuses to.

Despite his dedication, he spends as much time as he can with Ginette at home, privately terrified that these will be his last few weeks with her. Grantaire doesn’t mention it, for which Enjolras will be forever grateful. The man is a sarcastic, talkative pillar among the chaos that Enjolras holds tight to, afraid of drifting.

During these tumulous, stress-filled weeks Enjolras finally sees the inside of his upstairs apartment, because Grantaire makes a standing offer to babysit and Enjolras takes him up on that, each morning bringing his little girl to see R and watch educational cartoons and fingerpaint.

Grantaire is always careful to keep her out of the dangerous paints and pastels when she visits. His drop cloth-covered, paint-splattered, dusty, bright apartment, (with the messy bedroom, yes, and the bed that is half a nest where they can curl up together, Ginette tucked between them or asleep in the other room on the couch while Babar plays on the television so Enjolras can finally have Grantaire all to himself) is full of canvases. Half-finished paintings and portraits and sketches lie stacked against the walls as if they aren’t masterpieces, gathering dust.

(Grantaire blushes a little whenever Enjolras praises them so he does it as often as possible, finding extra reasons to stop by and admire his work.)

The weeks, few and precious, pass like a dream, and the court date in mid February is a wake-up call nobody wants to face.

And Grantaire can’t be there.

“The Colonel commissioned the sitting months ago,” Grantaire apologizes the eve of the hearing, tucked together under the blankets in Enjolras’ bed, upstairs apartment abandoned for the evening.

“I know,” Enjolras murmurs back, running his fingers in circles along Grantaire’s shoulders.

“I want to be there.”

“I know.”

“I make a pretty shit boyfriend.”

Enjolras shifts up on his elbow, fingers dropping away. “No,” he says, and Grantaire cocks an eyebrow at him. “You are an incredible, kind, talented, beautiful person, and I am happier than you could imagine having you next to me. Seriously,” he says when Grantaire opens his mouth to override him. “I mean it.”

Grantaire stares at him and shakes his head. “How the hell did I get lucky enough to get you?”

“I sort of made a mess of it the first go around.”

“Perfect relationships are boring,” Grantaire shrugs. “I’d much rather have this one.”

“Even if we lose tomorrow?”

“Which you won’t,” Grantaire assures him. “Because you’re Enjolras, and I cannot imagine a better stage for you than a courtroom fighting for what you believe in. Except perhaps a political debate.” He smirks, and then sobers. “But no matter what happens tomorrow, I will be here afterwards. _D’accord_?”

“ _Je t’aime_ ,” Enjolras whispers, a little floored by the dedication in Grantaire’s voice. He leans in, finding familiar, dry lips. “I don’t have the words to express it.”

“And I love you,” Grantaire says. “You’ll win. If the judge knows what they’re doing, you’ll win. You’ve done your research and then some. You’ve spent weeks on this. Your case is airtight. And you’re her father as much as her real father was, anyone with eyes can see that. You’ll win.”

“I don’t know how I would do this without you.”

“Luckily for you, I’m here. Go to sleep, Apollo. You need your rest.”


	8. Chapter 8

The day dawns bright and cold, and Enjolras dresses in familiar suit and tie, bar of red splashed across his chest. He dresses Ginette as well, a teal dress because Cosette loved the color. Grantaire sits on the counter with coffee and a sketchbook (“because the light is really good right now I should get up early more often”).

Enjolras checks his bag to make sure he has everything and then double checks, just in case, and Grantaire drops a kiss on his cheek.

“ _Ça va_ ,” he says. “Everything will go fine.”

“I’ll call you,” Enjolras promises.

“You’d better.”

\--

The courtroom is familiar and mostly empty. Courfeyrac meets him on the steps outside with Combeferre. Enjolras shifts Ginette in his arms as he arrives.

“I took the day,” Combeferre says before Enjolras can ask why he’s not at work. “I told my supervisor it’s a family emergency. Eponine’s inside already.”

“So’s everyone from the firm,” Courf says. “You’re late, for once.”

“Is Grantaire coming?” Combeferre asks.

“No,” Enjolras says. “He couldn’t get off work.”

“Sucks. He should quit,” Courfeyrac tells him. “Are you ready for this?”

“No,” Enjolras says. “But really I don’t think I’ll ever be so we may as well do it now. Who’s taking Ginette?”

“I will,” Combeferre says. Enjolras drops a kiss on her head. Combeferre takes her gently, propping her up on his hip.

“Dada,” she whines.

“I’ll see you after this is done, _petite_ ,” he promises. “Okay?”

“Okay,” she echoes, wiggling a little but not fussing. Combeferre’s glasses catch her eye and she reaches a pudgy hand up to grab them. Combeferre rests his free hand on his shoulder.

“It will be okay,” he says. “We’re all here for you, you know.”

“I know,” Enjolras tells him. “Thank you.”

When he vanishes up the steps Enjolras and Courfeyrac remain alone on the street.

“It will be fine,” Courfeyrac tells him. Enjolras smiles wanly.

“You’ll forgive me if I’m nervous anyways.”

Courfeyrac goes quiet for a moment, and Enjolras feels a little bad for doubting. But then his friend speaks up and the words are unexpected. “Marius would be proud, you know. Cosette too.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras manages through the lump in his throat. He closes his eyes briefly and breaths deeply, then opens them. “Okay,” he says. “I’m ready.”

(He’s not, not really, but he never will be, and this is as good as it’s going to get.

“Good man,” Courf returns, clapping him on the shoulder. “Let’s blow this joint. But not literally cause that’s super illegal.”

The door closes behind them with a weighty thump. Enjolras squares his shoulders, focuses, and follows Courfeyrac into the courtroom.

It’s nearly empty. His friends sit towards the back. There’s a pair of severe-looking men in suits, and a few reporter-types with a pads of paper and cheap pens. Jehan waves from across the room, and Eponine blows him a kiss. Enjolras smiles for them and turns to face the judge. She’s a stern-looking older woman who stares at them all through thin-rimmed glasses. Gillenormand sits across the aisle, trying to stare him down. His attorney is a tall, weasely man with bright yellow socks. Enjolras doesn’t recognize him. He doesn’t recognize the judge either, but maybe that’s a good thing, given his reputation. The woman bangs her gavel once (it’s not necessary, because no one is talking).

“Alright,” she starts, voice sharp. “I am Judge Marianne d’Emart, and you may address me thus. I want this over with today. Monsieur Arnaud Mathieu Gillenormand has raised questions pertaining to the guardianship of one Gineviève Fantine Pontmercy. Monsieur Gillenormand, you may present your case.”

The yellow-socked attorney stands up. “Madame,” he begins, and his voice sounds rough and simpering. “European Union childhood law is strict to keep children safe from those who would seek to exploit the innocent in our society. This is the last thing my client wishes. M. Gillenormand raises his concerns about the financial and social prospects of M. Enjolras.”

“I am, unsurprisingly, aware of why we are here,” Judge d’Emart tells him. “Please, continue with your argument.”

With a slight bow, Gillenormand’s attorney does just that.

\--

“Where did they find all that shit?” Courfeyrac demands when they break four hours later. Enjolras scrubs a hand over his face, feeling like he’s been run over after his time at the stand. He’s been practicing law for years but Gillenormand’s attorney is the most vicious, petty, equivocal lawyer he’s ever argued against. Courf is fuming.

“I mean, it’s all bullshit,” he continues, waving his arms and checking behind his shoulder to make sure no one overhears. “There’s no way anyone could buy that.”

“It’s technically sound,” Enjolras shrugs. Ginette, sitting in his lap, shoves cheerios in her mouth.

“You went through all the legal channels in the adoption,” Combeferre says on Courfeyrac’s other side. “If everyone who had a bad job had custody rights revoked we’d have a class of parentless children.”

“Don’t we already?” Courf mutters, only half a joke.

“It’s ridiculous,” Combeferre continues, ignoring the comment. “And legally they can’t discriminate based on sexuality, so the entire case is moot.”

“If it were that moot it never would have made it to court,” Enjolras points out.

“The things money will buy,” Courfeyrac sighs. Enjolras has a reply ready on his tongue but an aide steps into the hall and announces that it’s time to reconvene.

“Our turn,” Enjolras says, placing a kiss on Ginette’s head and handing her off to Combeferre again.

“Dada,” she whines, but lets her honorary uncle hold her.

“I’ll see you soon, petite,” he tells her. “Promise.”

(If he makes her a promise then he’ll have to keep it, no matter what.)

Combeferre grabs his arm as he follows Courf back into the courtroom.

“Good luck,” his friend says. “We believe in you.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras says through a suspicious lump in his throat. “I’ll see you afterwards.”

Back in the room Courfeyrac paces a little, three steps and turn, an aborted motion. He doesn’t sit until Enjolras settles in his seat. Judge d’Emart bangs the gavel a few times and the dull hum of conversation vanishes.

“M. de Courfeyrac, you may take the stand.”

(Enjolras has always been impressed with his friend’s ease with people, but right here and now the charm is on full force and as Enjolras watches his friend sways the entire room to his side. Under Courf’s persuasions even Gillenormand looks invested, and Enjolras could practically kiss him.)

As Courfeyrac makes his case Enjolras expects to be called up, because it’s not about Ginette it’s about him and Gillenormand, and because he and Courfeyrac discussed it extensively, but Courfeyrac doesn’t. Instead his friends come forward and vouch for him:

Combeferre talking about his dedication, how much he cares (stories from when they were kids and how he’s only grown since then, and Enjolras is touched);

Eponine telling stories about him and his sister and the promises he made to her (“Of course I’ll watch over her, Cosette, how could I not?”);

Feuilly explaining how their firm is finally flourishing again after clusterfuck after clusterfuck (though he doesn’t use those words exactly, and Enjolras has been so busy he hasn’t realized how they are finally doing well, finally balancing their budget and growing, finally becoming something greater, finally becoming a group that can do the good they want to do indiscriminately);

Bossuet affirming that as an outsider he feels at home, that the firm is a family and Enjolras leads it with the same care and dedication that he cares for his daughter (and he calls her his daughter, his _petite fille_ , because there was never any doubt that Enjolras is as much a father as he is);

Courfeyrac informing that despite this case, and how important it is to Enjolras, he has never slacked off on anything, that it has only pushed him harder (that always he pushes himself harder, for those that need his help, and now Enjolras feels proud and humbled at once, like if he were called to the stand he wouldn’t be able to speak for himself because he’s too wrapped up in the love and belief of his friends, his family);

And there’s one more witness to call to the stand, who comes in late and Enjolras doesn’t realize he’s there until Courfeyrac smiles at him, a shit-eating grin, and politely requests that Grantaire step forward.

Enjolras twists around to see his boyfriend sitting there with the rest of his friends, holding Ginette and looking impeccable in a suit and tie. He presses a kiss to the girl’s head and whispers something in her ear before he hands her back to Combeferre. He smiles at Enjolras as he passes, a little cocky but warm and comforting, before stating his name for the court and swearing to tell the truth.

“M. Grantaire,” Courfeyrac opens, “what is your relationship with M. Enjolras?”

“He’s my boyfriend,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras smiles at the word. (It’s just a word; words shouldn’t make him feel so bright inside.)

“And how long have you known each other?”

“He moved into my apartment building in August, so approximately six months.”

“And you’ve been seeing each other for how long?”

“Two months, give or take. But I’ve been babysitting Ginette for longer.”

“Could you describe M. Enjolras’ relationship with Geneviève Pontmercy?”

“I don’t really think anyone could do that,” Grantaire shrugs. “But–– I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone more dedicated to a child. After all the shi– the stuff that happened, I would totally understand if he locked himself in his room and didn’t want anything to do with her. But instead he’s incredibly strong and dedicated. He’s a father to her just as much as Marius Pontmercy. He loves that little girl with every fiber of his being. I believe that wholeheartedly.”

“Is there any reason you can think of why M. Enjolras would make an unsuitable guardian for Geneivève Pontmercy?”

“None whatsoever,” Grantaire says, looking straight at him. “His passion is evident in everything he does. Especially fatherhood. Anyone who wants to split them up is making a mistake, because there is no place better for Ginette than with him.”

(Enjolras wants to jump the table and curl himself into the crook of Grantaire’s neck and breathe him in and thank him and hold him and try to impress what exactly these words mean, but he’s stuck in his seat, staring at this brilliant, sarcastic man who, for reasons he might never understand, decided to believe in him and accept him and forgive him.)

“No more questions,” Courfeyrac says, almost smug. Gillenormand’s attorney has nothing else to add, frowning with his arms folded next to his blank-faced client. When Judge d’Emart gives them fifteen minutes for recess Enjolras slumps back in his seat, drained. And he hasn’t even spoken. Courf drops into the seat next to him.

“You didn’t tell me you asked him to be here.”

“We thought it would work better as a surprise. You should’ve seen your face.”

“You’re a terrible person,” Enjolras mumbles, but he doesn’t mean it. At all. Courfeyrac grins.

“He’s waiting for you in the hall. Go say hi. I’ll see you in fifteen.”

\--

Grantaire indeed waits in the hall, leaning against a pillar with Ginette at his hip. He smiles when he sees Enjolras, a little crooked.

“I thought you had a meeting,” Enjolras says.

“Dada!” Ginette hears his voice and twists towards him, arms open and demanding to be held. Enjolras aquiests.

“Well yeah, I did. But it was short. I’m doing the commission next week.”

“I’m glad you came.”

“Anything for you,” he brushes off, but Enjolras reaches out and grabs his hand, interlacing their fingers.

“Really,” he presses. “Thank you.”

Grantaire smiles a little, softer and almost embarrassed, and says, “Course.”

“I know I’m not always a great boyfriend––”

“Enjolras. You’re fantastic. Seriously. You can even prove it to me.”

“How so?”

“Potty!” Ginette says it with a grin, incredibly proud of herself.

“She’s needs to be changed.” Grantaire smiles and hands over her bag. “And a really great boyfriend would deal with with dirty diapers.” He drops a kiss on Enjolras’ cheek. “I’ll see you back in the court room.”

Enjolras smiles despite himself and takes Ginette to find a quiet corner to change.

\--

Back in the courtroom, Ginette still at his hip and tugging at his hair, babbling away, Enjolras looks for Grantaire, or Combeferre, but the group sitting at the back of the room has disappeared. Up at the front of the room Gillenormand sits with his lawyer, heads bent close and whispering heatedly. Courfeyrac stands near the judge, but he comes over when he sees Enjolras.

“Hello, _gamine_ ,” he greets Ginette. “High five!” He holds up his hand expectantly and she slaps it with her own, smiling brightly. Courf grins back. He’s the one who taught her that particular trick, and he takes great pleasure in showing her off every opportunity.

“Well done,” Enjolras says dryly. “Very professional.” Courfeyrac ruffles her hair a little and focuses again.

“I thought Ferre was watching her.”

“She needed a change,” Enjolras shrugs. “Apparently that’s my job.”

“The joys of parenthood.”

He shakes his head and coaxes Ginette to stop chewing on his  hair. She complains at the loss, and Enjolras is glad he doesn’t wear earrings. “You have no idea.”

“Do you want me to try to find Combeferre? I wasn’t sure if you wanted Ginette up here.”

“It’s fine. She’s been well-behaved all day. And I’ve missed her.”

“You’ve been in the same room all day.”

“It’s not the same,” Enjolras says, like that explains it all (which it does, but Courfeyrac doesn’t have a child and doesn’t understand exactly what that means).

Courfeyrac, for his part, looks at him like he’s a sap (it’s debatable) and wanders back over to Judge d’Emart. Enjolras settles in his seat and sets Ginette in his lap. She twists around to stare up at him.

“What is it?” he asks her. “What are you looking at? Hmm?”

“Dada, up.”

“I’m already holding you, _petite_.”

“Up,” she insists, so Enjolras hefts her up, small feet balancing in his lap, face to face.

“Is that better?”

She runs a hand over his nose and he tilts his chin up a little to press a quick kiss to her palm. She giggles. While she entertains herself he glances around the room. Gillenormand and his lawyer are still whispering furiously back and forth; Gillenormand looks determined and his lawyer’s shoulders are slowly slumping in defeat. It makes Enjolras wary. Behind him people are chatting. In his lap Ginette whines, so he returns his attention to the little girl.

“Dada.”

“Yes, _petite_?”

She just smiles, all rosy cheeks and bright eyes, and he’s smiling back almost without realizing it, a stupid grin stretching across his face.

“You are so beautiful,” he says. “Your Maman and Papa would be proud to see you.”

At the front of the room Judge d’Emart bangs her gavel and the door in the back opens and the assorted public troops back in. Enjolras presses a quick kiss to the top of Ginette’s head and sits her back in his lap, wrapping a steadying arm around her. She wriggles a little but settles with everyone else.

“We have finished with the witnesses,” the stern woman says. “And I have made a decision. After deliberating, my ruling on the custody of Geneviève Pontmercy is––”  
  
“Madame.” Gillenormand stands unexpectedly. Judge d’Emart breaks off and stares at him over the rims of her glasses, frowning at the interruption. Gillenormand’s attorney sighs theatrically and closes his eyes. “I would like to withdraw my petition.”

A wave of chatter rises from the stands behind him, but Enjolras can only stare at the old man in shock. Next to him Courfeyrac mutters, “Now? Seriously?”

“You wish to withdraw your petition for custody of the girl,” Judge d’Emart repeats.

“Yes.”

“After the case has been heard and a decision has been made.”

“Yes.”

“That’s all very well and good, M. Gillenormand, but I am still going to give my ruling.”

For a moment everything falls silent, and then from the back of the room Grantaire yells, “Well?”

The glare she gives him could freeze flame, but she replies nonetheless, “M. Enjolras is fully capable of caring for Gineviève Pontmercy. The petition is denied.” She strikes her gavel. “Court dismissed.”

Gillenormand reaches Enjolras before anyone else. Courfeyrac is grinning and pumping his fists and at the back of the room everyone is cheering wildly and congratulating each other and Enjolras remains sitting stunned in his seat, Ginette tugging at his jacket. “The ruling of this case is moot,” the old man says, and Enjolras stares at him, trying to process everything. “In my short-sidedness I did not bother to learn what kind of man is taking care of my great-granddaughter. This was my mistake.”

“Monsieur?”

Gillenormand smiles sadly. “I loved Marius, but I spent many, many years pushing him away because I did not like his father. Then he died, and I lost my chance to apologize, or explain. I do not want to foster that same relationship with his daughter. You are family, and you are a far better parent than I have ever been.”

Enjolras is speechless. (It doesn’t happen often, and he never likes it.) It sinks in slowly, slowly.

“Really,” he asks.

The man smiles, and it softens his face. “I have judged you too harshly and too soon. Despite the... unusual nature of your relationships, I cannot deny that she has thrived under your care. Of course,” he frowns a little, “I shall wish to see her now and again.”

“Of course, Monsieur,” he agrees, still in a daze. Courfeyrac claps him on the back and cheerfully thanks Gillenormand for the court date. They fall into a conversation about compensation and legalities, and Enjolras slumps down in his seat, Ginette kicking her heels against his shins idly. He closes his eyes and breathes in the smell of her, baby powder and fruit. She wiggles in his lap and he picks her up, stands her back on his lap.

“Did you hear, _petite_?” he asks her softly, while d’Emart vanishes into the back rooms; while the reporters try to get a word from Gillenormand’s attorney, who waves them away and stalks off; while Enjolras’ friends laugh and cheer and gather together. He ignores it all in favor of the girl in front of him. His girl. “They won’t send you away. It’s you and me, _petite_ , for as long as you’ll have me.”

“Dada!” she crows, and Enjolras grins at her, smiles like his heart is breaking (it’s not, it’s overflowing; he cannot contain it all within himself alone).

Grantaire reaches him first and sweeps him up, laughing, pressing scratchy kisses all over Ginette’s face while she laughs and protests, chanting out his name. Then comes Combeferre, and Eponine, and the others, smiling like idiots and laughing and telling Ginette how lucky she. Through them Enjolras sees Gillenormand nod at him, then turn and walk out, leaving them to their celebration. Grantaire’s arm wraps around his waist and Enjolras leans into him.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Everything they said up there was right,” Grantaire replies. “And I’ll be here as long as you need.”

“As long as you’ll have me,” Enjolras promises. Grantaire smiles and presses a soft, scratchy kiss against his temple. On his other side Ginette grabs at his hair and squeals at the attention being showered on her.

Just like her mother, his daughter is beautiful when she laughs.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> la fin
> 
> Thanks everyone it's been fun. Hopefully you've enjoyed this as much as I have.


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